


Algernon’s Bouquet

by Vexie



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Project Freelancer, season 10, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-02-14 11:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 59,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2189811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vexie/pseuds/Vexie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Memory is the key. And the Director likes his past locked up tight. After all, Blood Gulch always was where he kept his broken toys, wasn't it? After unlocking a few of the secrets locked away in a theoretically empty mind, Agent Washington decides to find out. Haven't you ever wondered why they were all there to begin with? Starts at 10x18 and spins away into a slight au.</p><p>COMPLETED</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shaken

**Author's Note:**

> Heads up: his story is going to play out something akin to season 9...there will be a story chapter followed by a backstory chapter. In addition to a slight AU, this is a series of short backstories.

A strangeness falls over Caboose that he has not felt for a very long time. Silence descends like a blanket of snow, allowing Church’s words to echo without the buffer of all of the normal noise. For the first time in a long time, the world is sharp and clear. Too sharp and clear. Tucker speaks and Caboose fights the urge to wince.

The lights drills into his eyes; the sharpness of the objects around him almost cuts into him. He stumbles backward a step—the sudden lack of buzzing throws him off balance. He looks at the large red AI for a moment longer. Somewhere, a part of him that feel vaguely _normal_ frantically throws phrases at him—things he might say in reply, questions he can ask, ways he can justify what just happened. But the quietness and clarity envelopes him and steadies his consciousness. An old ache comes to life and burns steadily inside of him. Without a word, Caboose turns and walks away in slow, measured paces. Did Church speak? He doesn’t know; he can’t tell.

Caboose focuses on the sound of his own footsteps echoing through the corridor as he makes his way through Red Base. After a few moments, he hears a second set of footsteps close behind him. Agent Washington. Caboose doesn’t acknowledge the Freelancer, but he doesn’t adjust his pace either. Washington catches up to him easily.

The silence in which they walk might be companionable, but the peace is poisoned with Wash’s concern. The silence and purpose with which Caboose walks is unsettlingly uncharacteristic—even his sneaky prowl is usually narrated by the soldier’s “Sneaking…sneak-ing….sneaking!” This silence worries Wash, but he doesn’t know what to do. Caboose makes his way toward the waterfall. Wash has no way of knowing that he needs the noise to relieve the painful clarity with which he is now seeing the world. He is honestly more concerned with getting Caboose back to the other sim soldiers at the base. Wash just knows that they need to regroup, to decide what to do next. He needs a strategy, an objective. A reason to keep moving.

“Hey,” he says, unable to take the strange silence any longer. Caboose might have paused, but it’s brief. Not enough to count as a response.

“Hey!” Wash repeats, in a voice laced with concern and an extra shot of volume. He grabs Caboose’s shoulder.

“What?”

Wash recoils at the sharpness in Caboose’s voice. This isn’t the cranky child he’s used to hearing when their daily treks run a little long or Grif steal his cookies. This voice sounds too… _adult_ and very bothered.

“Uh, are you—“ Wash stumbles over the words uncomfortably. He just wants to get Caboose back so they can decide what to do next. He isn’t good at this kind of thing. This is North’s department. Long ago, North laughs at him good-naturedly while he stumbles over an apology for some misremembered crime against York.

_“Look, I don’t do touchy-feely, okay?” Wash snapped, putting his helmet on over his burning face as a less-than-amused York stormed off._

_“Just be genuine, and for god’s sake,_ listen _. It’s not actually about you. Remember that and you’ll be okay,” North replied, punching his shoulder in a friendly way._

“Are you okay?” Wash asks, or starts to. The last word is lost again as he looks up to find Caboose removing his helmet. The face that stares back at Wash startles him. Why? It’s just Caboose—but then, has he ever seen Caboose with his helmet off? He tries to think. No, he hasn’t. A little guiltily, Wash realizes that this face startles him because it’s so different from what he’s pictured all this time. This isn’t the “Caboose” he’s imagined.

Caboose watches him as if he knows what the ex-Freelancer is thinking. His face is almost gaunt, delicate bone structure giving him a thoughtful look. The long nose has been broken several times, but could have healed worse. His hair is so blonde it’s almost white. Wash has the impression that it’s usually kept shaved fairly close to Caboose’s head; though it’s still short, it has a shaggy, untouched look. It stands out in odd tufts around a long purple scar that wraps from left temple to almost the back of his head. Caboose’s eyes are deep cobalt, darkening as he knits his eyebrows together.

“I remember,” he says slowly, dropping his helmet on the ground.

“You remember?” Wash repeats. _Memory is the key_.

“I wasn’t always Church’s…problem,” Caboose says, frowning as though he’s fighting to hold on to something.

“Right. You were best friends,” Wash nods, glad to be on familiar territory. For a shining moment, he thinks he might be able to relax, but Caboose shakes his head.

“No, something else.” He looks out toward the waterfall. Keeping his eyes trained on the perpetual movement of water, Caboose takes a deep breath.

“I think I used to know how to do stuff. Important stuff with computers and machines. I remember lots of papers with pictures of machines and math on them. And pushing buttons,” he says. The ghost of a smile touches his lips briefly. Wash can almost see the boyish face he’s always imagined.

“I made them but…” Caboose frowns again.

“What happened?” Wash asks. All thoughts of regrouping are gone. Wash isn’t really sure what he’s found, but there’s something here…something important, maybe.

“I remember Church was there…but he wasn’t like Church. He was…older….or…” Caboose shakes his head, frustration further darkening his eyes and bringing lines to the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t understand what he’s remembering, but Wash does with a cold jolt.

. “The Director,” he breathes. Caboose doesn’t seem to hear him.

“We were best friends…no….we worked together. We had a plan. I was excited to test it, but it was a secret so I agreed to….I had to…I woke up different. It was _loud_. Too loud. I remember burning…” Caboose is looking at the ground, but Wash gets the impression that he isn’t seeing anything. His skin starts to prickle. Caboose and the Director as partners? Doing what, exactly? Why?

“I woke up again and I was a soldier. I don’t remember joining…I remember paperwork with the UNSC University of Engineering stamp and saying goodbye to my sisters, but then I… went to Blood Gulch and….I met Church?” Caboose drops his head into his hands.

“But what were you working on? Focus…Can you remember anything? Any detail about what you were doing with the Director?” Wash asks, his voice fast and high. Blood pumps electric beats in his ears. Something big is happening—he can almost see how the dots connect.

Caboose lifts his head to look at Wash. His eyes are lightening and clouding over. Even Wash can see he is losing this moment of...whatever it was.

“No, I don’t…I don’t think Church wanted me to. Older Church. He said he was sorry but….” Caboose’s gloved hand almost touches the scar on the side of his head. “I woke up and it didn’t hurt anymore, but I had two scars instead of one.”

Wash begins to ask what he meant, but at that moment Caboose turns to look at the waterfall again and Wash sees them…three almost invisible pink lines that form a loose triangle where his head joins his neck. His mouth goes dry and his stomach drops. The matching scar on his own head begins to burn with the ghost of realization.

“The AI.” The words escape from Wash’s lips in a ragged whisper.

“Washington….what does the A stand for?” Caboose asks softly. “I can’t remember, but I think it’s very important.”

Wash can’t answer. His hands are in tight fists at his side. His teeth chatter against some unknown chill. Caboose closes his eyes and lets out a deep sigh that sounds like a sort of release. He sits down facing the waterfall and picks up his helmet. The moment of clarity is coming to an end. The world begins to slip out of focus, colors and sounds softening. Caboose lets the softness settle around him in relief. He picks up his helmet and begins toying with his visor. He’s Caboose again, not…whoever he used to be.

“Siiiiiigh,” Caboose narrates aloud in his own voice. “And now my best friend is angry with me.”

“I know, buddy,” Wash says, fighting to regain control of his body’s violent shaking. “Hey, I have to go talk to Tucker. Do you want to come?”

“No, I want to stay here,” Caboose says, setting his helmet aside. He picks up a handful rocks, then starts tossing them at the waterfall. Wash hesitates for a moment. The other person is gone, but Caboose isn’t fully back yet. He doesn’t seem right. Wash wonders whether he should leave the soldier alone.

“I can come back,” Wash offers.

“Okay,” Caboose says. He gives Wash a smile that doesn’t quite meet his empty eyes. Somewhere in the distant past, North Dakota puts a reassuring hand on a newly christened Washington’s shoulder.

“I’ll be right back. Just don’t do anything dumb and you’ll be fine,” Wash echoes North.

“Okay,” Caboose repeats. He takes up his rock tossing game again.

Wash lets his eyes drift to the two scars on Caboose’s head one more time before he walks away to find Tucker. He takes several deep breaths and focuses on keeping an even pace. Though he has questions that need answering as soon as possible, Wash has to fight the urge to just start punching things instead. Part of him doesn’t want to know the answers he’s in search of.

_“Mission first, deal with it later,” Maine said in one of his rare moments of talkativeness, palming Wash in the forehead in what might have been a playful way if it weren’t for his colossal strength. Sorry, he shrugged as Wash rubbed his neck reproachfully._

As Wash approaches Red Base, he finds Carolina strapping the last of her supplies to the Mongoose. Epsilon, miniscule and blue once more, floats near the handlebars. Freelancer and AI both turn toward him as he approaches. Wash stops dead. Anger hits him like a wave, rushing up through his chest.

“You sick fuck,” he growls before he can regain control. Carolina bristles, her hand going for her gun.

“The hell—“ she begins but Wash shakes his head, pointing.

“Not you, _him_ ,” he says. The blue AI holds out his hands in a gesture of peace.

“Look, if this is about what I said—“ but Wash cuts the AI off as well.

“It’s not. Maybe when you remember everything, you’ll know what you did. Maybe you should start by asking yourself why everyone is here,” he says.

“What are you _talking_ about?” Epsilon asks impatiently. Wash laughs without humor.

“Memory is the key,” he says wryly. Carolina steps between Wash and Epsilon, her hand still on her gun.

“Washington, we’ve got places to be. Go make cryptic comments at someone else,” she snaps. Wash ignores her and continues watching Epsilon. But the AI remains silent.

“Forget it,” Wash says finally, pushing past Carolina and going into the base.

  _TBC_


	2. Back to the Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay--I had to do some plot fixing. 
> 
> I hope to update once a week, maybe sooner, depending on how time goes. With one thing and another I'm essentially working 6 days a week right now... >.>

   Tucker sits at the table with his hands cupped around a can of beer. He isn’t drinking it. He just sits and stares at it. Sarge, Grif, and Simmons sit at the same table, each nursing his own military grey can of beer. Wash enters the mess hall and takes a seat across from Tucker. Sarge slides an unopened beer toward him. Wash catches it with ease. Standard issue beer, probably brewed in someone’s basement, from the taste of it. Cheap and weak; UNSC keeps the mess halls well stocked to appease the masses. York and the Dakotas had always managed to get real alcohol. South used to complain that the most you were gonna get from the standard issue was a bunch of idiots running on the memory of being drunk, and that was way less fun than it sounded.

“What’s going on?” he asks. He removes his helmet and sets it with the others gathered near the end of the table. His eyes linger for a moment at the gathering of different colored helmets and has to fight the urge to study every face at the table for any minute anomaly like Caboose’s.

“We’re trying to decide what to do next,” Simmons explains. Ah, yes, his original plan.

“How’s that going?” Wash asks. Grif lets out a bark of laughter.

“Nowhere to go and no way to get there. How do you _think_ it’s going?” The retort is sharp. Grif washes it down with a long draught from his can.

“Got any ideas, Freelancer?” Sarge asks.

“Not exactly,” Wash admits. He looks across the table at the silent blue soldier. Tucker’s dark eyes have not left the can in his hands.

“Actually, I came to ask Tucker something. Though now that I think about it, I should probably ask all of you,” he says, glancing around the table. Sarge sits back, salt-and-pepper eyebrows raising skeptically. Simmons, on the other hand, leans forward with a gentle whirr from his cyborg parts. Grif finishes his beer and grabs another as if Wash hadn’t spoken.

“Why are you guys here?” Wash asks.

“Like, philosophically?” Simmons says.

“No, you. Personally. Why did they station you guys _here_? With the Alpha?”

Sarge crosses his arms.

“I don’t follow. What’s this got to do with anything?” he asks.

“Think about it. The Director hid the Alpha AI in a sim soldier and sent him to one of the most remote outposts Project Freelancer owns. Do you really think he wouldn’t have hand-picked the soldiers who were there with him?” Wash says. Silence.

“Okay, fine. I’ll say it. Where the _hell_ did this come from?” Grif asks, already halfway through his second (as far as Wash knew) beer. Wash hesitates. He tells them what he’d just witnessed at the waterfall.

“So that got me thinking…the Director hid the Alpha A.I. here, where he thought it would be safe. And he dumped Caboose here, too. With you guys,” Wash concludes. “I just want to know why.” He meets another silence, this one more stunned than skeptical.

“Dude, you’re full of shit.”

Okay, mostly stunned. Tucker finally raises his eyes to glare across the table at Wash. Not even a hint of his usual smirk remains.

“Oh really.” Wash meets Tucker glare for glare.

“You expect me to believe that we’re all here as part of some big cover-up? Did Church and Carolina put you up to this so we’d go with them?” Tucker asks.

“No, I just want to know where you came from. That’s it,” Wash says. For now. _You’d better have a damn good plan_ , _Carolina snarls, because if you think you’re just going to stop here, you’re just fooling yourself._

“Why? So you can prove we’re soldiers just like you?” Tucker snorts, shaking his head.

“ _No_.” Wash’s reply was sharp. “Not like me.”

The next few moments are so silent that Simmons later swears he _heard_ Grif mouth the word “Awkward”. Wash takes a deep breath.

“In the beginning of Project Freelancer, there was the Director, the Counselor, and the Developer,” he says. “We never met the Developer in person. We heard his voice a little bit in classes and the Director referred to him pretty often. The Developer was the leading scientist in the AI technology—the Director specialized in neurobiology and psychology. According to him, the Developer was responsible for the whole AI program…and not just the soldiers either. He developed the technology for the smart tanks, FILIS, your robot kits…everything. It was his tech that really pushed the UNSC from drone technology to the AI that we have now.”

“So?” This from Grif.

“I think…I think that’s who Caboose is, or was.” Wash frowns and waits. Inside, he cringes, waiting for the ridicule he knows he’ll get. He isn’t disappointed. The whole table bursts into laughter.

“Yeah, right. Okay.” Simmons shakes his head.

“You really had us goin’ there, Washington,” Sarge says.

“You guys, I’m serious. He has implantation scars and…and I think they might have wiped him. He said he remembered working with the Director and the AI. Come on, think about it. It makes sense,” Wash almost pleads with them. Heads shake, more laughter bubbles around the table.

   “Just think about it. Did they tell you anything? Ask you anything specific?” Wash asks, looking from soldier to soldier. He knows how crazy he sounds, but he’s not wrong. He can’t be wrong. The part of his brain that’s still… _Epsilon_ is sure of it.

“Like what?” Grif says. “All they told me was some boring stuff and to beat the Blues.” The other Reds nod in agreement.

“What about on Blue team, Tucker? Did they tell you anything about Church when they said you were going to be reporting to him?” Wash asks.

“Dude, Chruch wasn’t the CO. He was just another asshole private. He just kinda…took over when our CO died,” Tucker says, shrugging.

“You had actual CO and he just _died_?” Wash asks.

Actual death on a sim soldier base had been pretty rare unless a Freelancer got feisty.

“Yeah, Captain Flowers. Random heart attack or something. We never really found out since it took them twenty fucking years to send us a useless medic,” Tucker shakes his head. Wash sits back, the knot returning to his stomach, but for a different reason.

“Captain _Flowers_? Butch Flowers?” He asks weakly. Tucker’s head jerks up.

“Wait, you knew him?”

“Yeah,” Wash says slowly. “He was a Freelancer. Agent Florida. He was sent out on a classified mission right when everything went down. We never heard where or why he went or what happened to him. Guess it’s because he came with the Alpha and…”

Died. Damn. Florida…well…to be honest, Florida had been one of the guys Wash hadn’t really known what to do with. He was older than most of the other Freelancers…maybe mid to late thirties when Wash knew him. One minute the guy would be running stealth ops armed with nothing but throwing knives, and the next he was snapping everyone with towels in the locker room and swapping knock-knock jokes with Wyoming. With his smaller frame, laid back personality, and unbeatable stealth skills, Florida would have been a prime candidate for babysitting the Alpha AI.

“I never collected his armor. What happened?” Wash asks.

“We might not have told Command that he was dead. He was a Freelancer? This sucks dude. You guys are really responsible for ruining my life. I want a refund.” Tucker taps into another can of beer.

“What did you do with his armor?” Wash asks more pointedly. Tucker stutters over several syllables that don’t really add up to anything.

“Tucker’s wearing it,” Simmons supplies.

“Tattletale,” Grif mumbles.   
            “Shut up,” Simmons hisses back. “He asked.”

“Teacher’s pet,” Grif says.

“Wait, that wasn’t—where is his _other_ armor?” Wash asks.

“What other armor?” Tucker says. “Wait, was he holding out the really awesome Freelancer armor?”

Wash leans both elbows on the table, linking his fingers together.

Blood Gulch.

It’s somewhere to start, at least.

“What if I can prove it?” he asks.

“What, that Caboose is a super genius and we’re all special little butterflies?” Grif accentuates his sarcasm with a long belch. “Be my guest.”

“Then we need to go to Blood Gulch.” Wash says.

“What? Why?” Sarge asks.

“Also, how?” Simmons adds.

“Florida would have had intel. I want to see how much of the story he got,” Wash says as if he hadn’t just thought up this idea in the past thirty seconds.

“I hate to say it, but I’m with Simmons. How are we supposed to get there?” Grif asks. “Blood Gulch is a million miles away.”

“Actually, if we drive it right, it’ll only be a couple of days.” Wash says. “It’s not like it’s on another planet or anything.” A wave of disgusted groans makes its way around the table.

“What, did you have anything else going on? I thought you wanted something to do,” Wash counters, raising his eyebrows.

“A road trip to a stupid boxed canyon isn’t really what we were thinking of,” Simmons says.

Wash starts to speak, but stops. He looks at each person at the table.

_“If you’re going for a poker face,” York reminds him, “it’s better to act like you’ve got everything up your sleeve than having nothing. Especially when you look like a pouting child most of the time.”_

“Come on. This is a chance to prove me wrong. What if you guys aren’t just loser sim soldiers after all? What if you were each chosen for a purpose?”

“Gee, I feel so inspired now,” Grif deadpans. Wash sighs in frustration, scrubbing his hands through his hair.

“Fine, you know what? Fine. You stay here, hang out. Wait for the UNSC to come get you, I don’t care.”

“Blackmail? Hmmm, are you sure you’re not evil again?” Sarge asks. Wash begins to wonder if they’re even actually discussing things with him or just messing with him at this point.

North and York are laughing at him in the past.

            “So let me get this straight,” Tucker says. There is no amusement in his voice. “You’re saying our options are jail or roadtrip?”

            Wash opens his mouth to reply, but a loud gasp cuts him off.

            “Road trip? Who’s going on a road trip? Are we? Tucker! Are we going on another road trip?”

            Wash has to fight back a smirk as Caboose’s excited chatter fills the room. He’s got them now. He loses his battle against the smirk as Tucker lets out a groan.

            “Okay, yes, we’ll go on your stupid road trip. Wow.” He says.

            “Hang on, we? _We_? You think you can just decide for us, Blue?” Sarge cries.

            “So, we’re not going? Sweet. They can do all the work, and I’ll sleep,” Grif says, grinning. Sarge looks at the heavy soldier in dismay…though he is one of a small minority that can appear dismayed with clenched teeth.

            “You know, sir, if we let the Blues go back to Blood Gulch, there’ll be no one to stop them from going into Red Base,” Simmons points out.

            Wash thinks he actually hears the chair fall and a pair of hands slam on the table before Sarge is stood up.

            “You’re right! We’re comin’ too, Blues! You can’t stop us!” he shouts.

            Simmons shoots an angelic grin at Grif, who is glaring daggers at him. Wash watches all of this with raised eyebrows.

            “All right, so we’re all going then? Back to Blood Gulch?” He confirms.

            “ _Blood Gulch?_ Oh man, this is gonna be awesome! I can show you all the cool places!” Caboose crows.

     Wash watches him as he attempts to reminisce with Tucker, shaking his arm in excitement. He tries to picture the scars he saw and the dark circles under the eyes that are now once again covered by the soldier’s blue helmet.

            Time to figure out what this is all about.

_TBC  
_


	3. The Last Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Blood/gore, war scenes, death, insanity
> 
> This is Backstory #1. 
> 
> Next chapter will be a storyline bit. :3

Six hours is a long time to be standing on a high wall, holding a battle rifle. Maybe it’s not that long in military terms, where people spend days on their feet, clutching weapons without so much as a sip of water. But when you’re waiting to see if— _when_ someone comes home, six hours always seem like six decades.

            The scraggly old soldier on the wall is exhausted, though his muscles continue to jump, fueled by nerve and dread. His dark grey eyes flit uneasily between the dirt road and the dark cloud on the horizon. Sporadic flashes light up different parts of the cloud, but it’s not a storm. It’s a battle. The soldier is pretty sure that identical storms of battle are all over the planet by now. He tries not to think about what that means.

            Fortunately, he doesn’t have to.

            A much smaller cloud appears in front of the big one. This one is brown with a black speck in the center. Relief is followed by a chaser of rage, flooding the soldier’s veins and tightening his hands around his weapon. But his limbs are steady as he raises the rifle’s scope to his eye and focuses on the black speck—in all actuality the speck is a military grade jeep. The soldier zooms as far as he can and counts the figures in the jeep. All three of his missing subordinates are accounted for. They seem to be having a heated discussion. The soldier lets out a low growl. Their discussion is nothing compared to the one that he’s going to have with them when they get back to base. He lowers his weapon and begins making his way down from the wall.

            He’s going to be there to greet his boys when they get home.

 

            The soldier is leaning on the front gate when the jeep pulls up. It slows visibly when he’s spotted by the driver, who appears to let out a pretty colorful curse. The other two boys hang their heads.

            “You mind tellin’ me what the hell you think you’re doin’?” the soldier asks casually. He doesn’t give them a chance to respond. Not that they’re really trying.

            “Bell. Morrow,” he barks. “I want you to take the jeep you stole back where it belongs and give it a good washing. I wanna see my pretty face in the tire treads when I get back, understood?”

            “Yes, sir,” the passenger and gunner reply immediately. The driver slumps in his seat, waiting for the worst.

            “Your fearless leader and I are gonna have ourselves a little chit chat. C’mon, boy,” Their CO grins at the driver, who starts to move. Morrow claps him on the shoulder as he takes his place.

            “Good luck, Briggs,” he says, a little too cheerfully.

            “Shut up,” Briggs growls, hopping down to the ground. He stands at a stiff attention as the others drive away. His grimace clearly shows how much he wishes he was going with them. He’d much rather be scrubbing down the jeep.

            “You didn’t answer my question,” the older soldier says.

            “We had a free day, sir,” Briggs says through his teeth.

            “All right. Fine. You still stole a vehicle without permission, left base without informing your commanding officer, and dove head first into a restricted area and known battle zone. Did I forget anything, soldier?”

            “We didn’t interfere. We wanted to see what was going on. We’re not being told anything. It’s not fair!” Briggs bursts out.

            “It ain’t our fight. Not yet,” the older man growls.

            “It’s our planet! We should be there, fighting for our home! The SPARTANS need—“

            Briggs is cut off by his CO’s harsh bark of laughter.

            “Son, if you think you’ve got anything to offer a SPARTAN, you’re getting a mite too big for your britches.”

            “You don’t understand! There’s only six of them and hundreds—thousands of Covenant! The city is falling,” Briggs admits, his voice cracking. A dark cloud settles over both men, weighing them down almost visibly. The older man sighs.

            “Getting yourself killed ain’t gonna help.”

            “With all due respect, _Sarge_ , we’re better than that. We’re not gonna get killed,” Briggs says in a voice that’s anything but respectful. The older man grabs the front of his subordinate’s uniform and gives him a good shake.

            “I’m not talkin’ as your CO right now. I’m talkin’ as your father,” Sgt. Briggs says, voice rough. “Do you know how long I stood on that wall, waiting to see if you’d come back?”

            The younger man opens his mouth to reply, but is stopped by the “if.” He hangs his head.

            “If” is a path the Briggs men don’t go down anymore. “If” preceded the first few attacks that took a wife and mother away from the family. “If” destroyed their happy home and sent the surviving members of their family to war. “If” looms over them every second of every day, no matter how hard they try to avoid it.

            But there it is, out in the open. “If” has gotten loose.

            “What if the SPARTANs fail?” Briggs can’t stop the question. His father watches as the tough soldier melts into the sixteen year old his son truly should be. His face is open and raw, distress and long withheld fear shining like a beacon.

            “If the city falls, what are we going to do?”

            “Then we fight until we die or escape,” Sgt. Briggs says.

            Startled, the son looks at his father’s face. Steely eyes meet stormy ones. Briggs takes a deep, shaking breath.

            “But if we leave, they’ll take Reach,” he says, almost in a whisper. “If” again, devouring everything he knows.

            “We are Reach, son. If we leave, Reach lives.”

            There is a moment of silence. There is a slow intake of breath.

            “I’m sorry,” Briggs says quietly. The Sargent grins.

            “You’ve got guts Like your old man!” he says, letting go of his son’s uniform and clapping him on the shoulder. A clap like thunder echoes through the dusk. The ground shakes. Both soldiers turn back toward the smoke-engulfed city. The smoke is billowing outward and upward in an enormous mushroom.

            “We need to get back to base _now_ ,” Sgt. Briggs says.

            “What was that?” Briggs asks, eyes wide. “Sarge— _Dad?_ ”

            “It’s time to fight,” his father replies grimly. He makes a motion and both men take off for the base at a steady run.

            With a nod at one another, Briggs Jr. heads for the garage while the elder heads for the war room.

            “Sargent Briggs. Glad you could join us. The city has fallen. UNSC is evacuating everyone they can. Civilians first, then us,” Commander Chapman says, looking up as the sergeant enters the room.

            “Escorts?” Sgt. Briggs asks. Chapman shakes her head.

            “We hold. There’s no time to deploy. UNSC wants everyone out in eighteen hours.”

            Sgt. Briggs breathes a sigh of relief. Short and sweet.

            “Orders?” he asks.

            “Clear and hold an LZ. They’ll spend more time evacuating civilians. They expect us to be ready for them when they’re ready for us,” Chapman replies. Sgt. Briggs nods again.

            Eighteen hours. Just eighteen. No problem.

 

*

 

            At six hours, the first Covenant forces arrive. A horde of ugly little grunts spill over the walls. The men and women of the South Base are ready for them. The dirt quickly turns purple with the aliens’ blood

            Briggs the younger’s face is red with adrenaline as he competes with his friends to “pop” the most grunts. They scream kill counts across the field to each other, the numbers giving them a false sense of jubilation to hide their actual screams of fear and horror.

            The hordes keep coming and numbness to the blood and the stench starts to set in

 

*

 

            At nine hours, there is a break between waves and Sgt. Briggs holds his son’s head as the boy’s stomach heaves and his body rejects his first skirmish, the screams of the dying, the slick rivulets of blood, and the color that human and alien blood and guts make when they’re combined. Briggs is just a kid in this moment, white faced and shaking. His wide stormy eyes find his father’s slightly darker ones. He doesn’t know it, but his eyes are begging.

            At nine hours and eighteen minutes, Sgt. Briggs hands his son a canteen of water and claps him on the back.

            In a rare gesture that he will relive over and over and over again, Sgt. Briggs tells his son that he did well. He tells his only child that he has made his home world and his father proud.

            The speech isn’t rehearsed. Sgt. Briggs doesn’t think too hard about it. The words come naturally. He has no idea that he will remember every word, every inflection. He has no idea that he will remember the exact shape of the tiny, relieved smile that touches his son’s lips.

            This is the moment that will come back to Sgt. Briggs in the quiet of the night and take his breath away in a mixture of pain and relief for the rest of his life.  
            At nine hours and twenty-six minutes, the next wave hits. Jackals start sniping from afar while brutes charge the front lines.

 

*

 

            At eleven hours, the evac call comes in. One more hour. As reluctant as Briggs had been to abandon Reach before, he almost cries in relief when the news spreads across the soldiers. He and his comrades feel revived and fight with renewed gusto.

 

*

 

            At twelve hours, an unspotted force comes in from the east A well-aimed blast from one of the hunters ambling onto the battlefield obliterates the first Pelican. The second gets out of dodge as anxious cursing fills the radio.

            At twelve hours and four minutes, Command informs the team that they will need to clear the LZ before Command will send another evac team in.

            Chapman demands assistance. Command promises that reinforcements are being sought.

            No ETA is given.

            Brigg is standing next to Bell when a blue, pulsating orb attaches to Bell’s forehead. Bell turns to look at Briggs in confusion. Briggs opens his mouth to laugh, and then Bell’s head and a good deal of his shoulders are gone. The rest of him falls to the ground with a wet _thump_.

            Briggs does not move for several seconds.

 

*

 

            At fifteen hours, Sgt. Briggs pulls his son backward as the remaining soldiers fall back to the base. Command provides no information, no contact. The radio is silent. The Briggs men and a handful of soldiers close the steel plated doors of one of the garages and barricade themselves in.

            Sgt. Briggs discusses strategy with the two remaining officers. The privates tear into their food. Briggs doesn’t join them. He sways on his feet and stares around blankly.

            Sgt. Briggs notices his son’s behavior just as the boy’s knees buckle and he crumples to the ground. Briggs’s father finally sees the crimson stain soaking the side of his uniform. His heart becomes a cold stone in his stomach.

 

*

 

            At sixteen hours and thirty minutes, Briggs is bandaged and sleeping (or drifting; Sgt. Briggs can’t tell, but keeps checking to make sure). The two jeeps in the garage unit are in pieces all over the floor. The four privates who are not asleep are digging through the parts to match them with the sketches Sgt. Briggs drew out for them.

            Outside, the sounds of battle rage on. The base is being ransacked. Grunts celebrate victory, not knowing that there are still humans left alive.

            Command has not spoken in over four hours.

 

*

 

            At seventeen hours and forty-eight minutes, Sgt. Briggs does not have enough pieces. He needs access to a selection of parts on the base’s one tank. The tank is right across the way…but they have to go outside.

            Sgt. Briggs and the officers look at each other grimly.

 

*

 

            At eighteen hours, Sgt. Briggs’s alarm pings. Eighteen hours.

            Sgt. Briggs shouts a stream of obscenities in the general vicinity of Command while the other soldiers look on. Their silence is not disagreement, but grim respect.

            Briggs the younger wakes up to his father’s screams. He quickly gathers the gist of the tantrum and laughs through bubbles of blood that stain his lips. His eyes are angry and unfocused. He coughs a few times before he begins to drift off again.

            Sgt. Briggs watches his son. A hot iron is burning into his chest and he can’t breathe anymore.

 

*

 

            At eighteen hours and twenty-three minutes, each officer and private grips a tool and whispers his “shopping list” under his breath. Briggs is not making the trip. He is propped against a stack of tires with a shotgun—just in case.

            After a silent countdown, the team slides the garage door open a foot or two and roll under one by one.

            The job goes quickly and well. The men slide their prizes under the door and follow. Sgt. Briggs and Captain Rice are last. They slide the shaft of the tank’s main cannon under the dor and follow it.

 

*

 

            At eighteen hours and thirty-four minutes, two shotgun blasts echo through the garage. Most of the soldiers drop to the floor. Some cry out.

            A brute is on the floor, his invisibility field flickering several times before staying off entirely. Sgt. Briggs kneels next to his son, who is smirking. His face is white against the two black circles around his eyes. His breathing is shallow.

            “How’d you know?” Sgt. Briggs asks, taking the shotgun and setting it on the floor. He takes his son’s cold hands in his own.

            “See?” Briggs says, grinning proudly, displaying his bloody teeth. “I got plenty to offer the SPARTANs. Gonna figure out how to submit an app soon as we get evac.”

            “Yeah. You showed me,” Sgt. Briggs says softly, stroking his son’s hand with his thumbs.

            “Gonna be a SPARTAN. Gonna come back and save Reach. ‘N then we can go home,” Briggs is quiet, almost mumbling. His father is trying to breathe.

            “You run on home, Trenton. Give your mama a hug for me,” Sgt. Briggs’s voice is loud and rough. The other soldiers are somber and silent. A few turn away.

            Neither of the Briggs men speak, then. The younger sighs deeply once. The elder does not move.

            Captain Rice silently signals the soldiers to get to work. Sgt. Briggs left clear enough instructions to get most of the heavy lifting done.

 

*

 

            At twenty-one hours, Captain Rice gently touches Sgt. Briggs on the shoulder. The older man does not move.

            “We need you,” the captain says softly. “It’s time.”

            Sgt. Briggs sighs deeply. He stands and takes the shotgun. He straps it to his back and nods at Captain Rice.

            “Hello, pretty lady,” he says suggestively to the mess of machinery. “Let’s see what these boys did to you.”

 

*

 

            At twenty-two and forty-one minutes, the garage door opens

            Sgt Briggs steps out in mismatched armor. He blasts several curious grunts in the face with his shotgun, grinning savagely. Dressed similarly, the other soldiers charge into the open. The Covenant laugh, almost collectively.

            “Sic ‘em!” Sgt. Briggs calls loudly.

            A large robot bounds onto the field, honking furiously. It stops in front of the humans and considers the confused Covenant staring up at. There is an almost palpable silence. One long beep sounds moments before the cannon that had once been on the tank fires, taking out an impressive radius of enemies. The soldiers scream in jubilation, charging forward.

            Their last fight is just beginning.

 

*

 

            At twenty three and sixteen minutes, static followed by a quiet, precise voice invade the radios of Sgt. Briggs and his men.

            “This is the Mother of Invention,” the voice says. “Please stand by for evac. We will clear a landing zone for our agents.”

            “Where the hell have you been?” growls Sgt. Briggs.

            “Please stand back,” the voice says, and nothing more. Sgt. Briggs thinks he hears a woman’s voice say “Firing main cannon” somewhere in the background.

 

            At twenty three hours and twenty two minutes, an explosion rips through a knot of Covenant. Aliens and humans alike scream obscenities in various languages. It’s almost poetry.

            A UNSC Pelican soars down into the smoking clearing. Soldiers in customized, multi-colored SPARTAN armor leap from the bay door before the Pelican is anywhere near the ground. They land fighting, impossibly fast and dangerously hard. Sgt. Briggs imagines his son as one of them.

            A soldier in orange armor with green accents fights her way over to the humans.

            “We’ll hold them off. Get to the Pelican!” She calls out. “Sync?”

            Most of the soldiers respond in the affirmative. Sgt. Briggs is silent for a moment.

            “I gotta go back and get one of my men,” he says. “He’s not far.”

            “You have a wounded soldier?” the SPARTAN-clad woman glances back toward the Pelican. Sgt. Briggs doesn’t respond.

            “Well? Do you?” the woman snaps impatiently.

            “He’s dead,” Captain Rice offers quietly, stepping between the two soldiers. Sgt. Briggs straightens.

            “He’s my son,” he says evenly.

 

            At twenty-three hours and thirty-one minutes, a soldier in mismatched armor makes a run for the garages. The orange and green soldier tackles him to the ground.

            “The dead are dead! Think of the living and let’s go!” she shouts.

            “I’m not leavin’ my boy here,” Sgt. Briggs growls in response.

            “I’d let you stay but I have orders not to leave any living human behind,” the orange soldier says.

            Sgt. Briggs lifts his shotgun. The other soldier is far too quick. She strikes him across the face with her DMR. He falls unconscious.

 

*

 

            At twenty four hours and three minutes, Sgt Brigs wakes up in orbit. He unbuckles his harness and carefully makes his way to the window on unsteady feet. Reach is far below.

            “Trenton,” he says, whipping around to face the other occupants of the Pelican. It’s as much a question as a command. The Reach soldiers look at the ground.

            Sgt. Briggs knows. But he doesn’t have to believe it until someone says it. He challenges the soldiers in SPARTAN armor with his eyes. The female in orange tenses, but a man in purple armor puts his hand on her knee.

            “Relax, Mary,” he says in a slow, calm voice. He stands and takes off his helmet. His hair is a white, sandy shade of blonde. Compassionate blue eyes meet Sgt. Briggs’s eyes without fear.

            “I’m Agent North Dakota. These are Agents Maryland, Ohio, and Kentucky. We’re Freelancers,” he says slowly and clearly.

            “Where the _hell_ is my son?” Sgt. Briggs asks. North Dakota walks over and puts a hand on Sgt. Briggs’s shoulder.

            “He belongs to Reach,” the Freelancer says gently. Sgt. Briggs steps backward, hands curling into fists. Maryland stands up, bringing her own fists up into a guard position.

            “Hey, easy. Easy!” North Dakota says, holding up his hands at the two soldiers. A tense moment passes, then Sgt. Briggs crumples to the floor. Only then does Maryland relax.

            “Okay, nothing to see here,” North Dakota says meaningfully. Everyone looks away. The dead boy’s father is given as much privacy as he’s going to get.

 

*

 

            Thirty-six hours.

            Sgt. Briggs sits alone in a room with a bed and little else in it.

            He does not move.

            He does not speak.

 

*

            Forty-two hours.

            Yelling and pacing.

            Ranting.

            Demanding.

            No one comes in.

            There’s nothing to throw or it would be thrown.

 

*

 

            Sixty hours.

            Sgt. Briggs has decided where the cameras are and is talking into them.

            He won’t remember what he says later.

            He’ll always remember the last few hours on Reach.

            Run on home.

 

*

 

            Time doesn’t exist. He forgot to keep count. There is nothing to tell him how much time has passed.

            Sgt. Briggs has worked a panel off the wall and is connecting wires together. He knows what he’s doing and they know that.

            When the door opens, he’s disappointed to find a man in grey jumpsuit behind it. He’s not sure why.

            “Sargent Joseph Briggs. Come with me, please.”

            As they walk past rooms and doors, Sgt Briggs realizes his not in a prison after all. He’s in a hospital ward.

            A man in gold armor is wheeled past going the other direction. The visor on his helmet is spider-webbed and shattered. Doctors are conversing rapidly over the man.

            “Don’t worry,” Sgt. Brigg’s guide says. “He, along with everyone here, will be given the best of care.”

            “Is that why I was locked in a room for days on end?” Sgt. Briggs asks. The man slides his icy eyes over to the Reach man.

            “We thought you might need time alone with your grief,” the man says.

            Sgt. Briggs grunts noncommittally. He suddenly does not want to talk to this man.

            They walk in near silence to what looks like a board room of some kind. The man indicates that Sgt. Briggs should sit down. He hesitates, then complies.

            “Who are you, anyway? What’s going on?” he asks. The man gives a thin smile that, like every movement the man makes, seems carefully calculated and rehearsed.

            “I am called the Counselor,” he says. “It is nice to meet you, Joseph.” Sgt. Briggs flinches at the sound of his given name.

            “Call me Sarge,” he says.

            “Very well.” the Counselor’s fingers scurry across the data-pad in his hands. The wall behind him flickers, revealing itself as a screen.

            “You were not always a soldier, correct?” he asks.

            “What’s it to you?” Sarge replies, crossing his arms. Security footage from a mechanical engineering plant of some kind plays silently on the screen. Sarge sees himself, younger and unknowing working on new products and discovering the flaws in faulty machines.

            “We already know, of course. We are very interested in your work,” the Counselor says.

            “Those days are over,” Sarge replies, “I’m a soldier now. If this is about reintigratin’ me to the workforce, send me back to the battlefield.”

            “Are you sure?” the Counselor asks, face unmoving.

            “Hell yes,” Sarge says, mustering up enthusiasm he didn’t know he could still possess.

            More typing on the data pad.

            “Can you tell me about this machine? I understand you designed it?” the Counselor asks. The cannon-wielding robot appears on the screen, taking out aliens left and right as the soldiers battle on. Something twists inside Sarge.

            “I did. We needed a heavy that was smaller than a vehicle and twice as deadly. It was easy enough since we were locked in a garage,” Sarge shrugs. He tries not to think about the garage that is now serving as the final tomb for his son.

            “It was unmanned. How did you accomplish this? There are no records of any AI units on your base,” the Counselor is recording the conversation rapidly.

            “AI would have helped,” he grumbled. He doesn’t mention how many times he’s requisitioned smart vehicles and weapons.

            “We used a combination of VI—virtual intelligence. We had a Friendly Fire Recognition tool and a lock function from the tank. We used that to ensure continuous fire on anything not wearing a friendly service tag. Just reprogrammed the jeeps’ GPS to move with the locked targets or by voice command, then connect the directions to the movement function.”

            “Fascinating,” the Counselor says. “Please excuse me.”

            Several minutes pass. Sarge considers taking something else apart just to keep him from thinking. But the door opens again and the Counselor steps back inside. Sarge thinks he sees a man with dark hair and thick glasses outside, walking away.

            “I think we have the perfect place for you, Sarge.” The Counselor says with a small smile.

            “One condition,” Sarge says. The Counselor looks up, concern flashing momentarily across his features. The emotion is caught and removed within a matter of seconds. Sarge grins.

            “I ain’t goin’ nowhere without my shotgun.”


	4. Battle Stations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for all the feedback on Sarge's chapter! You don't even know how excited that makes me. That being said, I've had a really hard time with this one. Hence the delay. Anyway, read on, thanks again, and let me know what you think~!

 

Eighteen hours on the road and Wash starts to regret his decision. He’s riding the turret on the back of a Warthog, regretting every decision in his life that has brought him to this moment; riding along out here in the middle of nowhere dealing with….this.

“I got the Blues…in a headlock!” Sarge is singing at the top of his lungs, kicked back in the passenger seat of the Reds’ Warthog. He’s also using his helmet’s voice amplifier to project his voice and (somehow) a “phat beat” over the roar of the Warthogs and into the silence of the wilderness. Wash is kicking himself for ever showing the Reds and Blues how to use their amplifiers.

“Dude, we’re _right here_!” Tucker shouts over to the Reds. “Not cool!”

Sarge ignores Tucker and (Wash thinks) manages to turn up the volume on his amplifier.

“I got the Blues in my shotgun sights!” Caboose joins in happily. The roadtrip seems to be lifting his spirits. They’ve had four games of “I Spy,” one long argument about why they can’t play the “License Plate Game,” and surprisingly minimal moping.

“Caboose!” The warthog swerves with Tucker’s head as he turns to glare at his teammate. The roadtrip has not, however, improved Tucker’s sour mood. In fact, it seems to have further soured it.

“I’m sorry, it’s just so catchy!” Caboose responds, not sounding sorry at all.

Enough is enough.

“Tucker! Road!” Wash calls from the turret. “Sarge, cut it out! We’re working _together_ now, remember?”

Tucker straightens out the warthog. Sarge cuts the beat with an annoyed growl.

“Doesn’t mean I have to convert to _Blueism_ ,” he mutters. A few moments later, he begins humming his song in a menacing tone. Caboose follows suit, though very off key.

Wash feels a migraine coming on. More than that, he feels a little pit of dread starting to form. It’s the special kind of dread that starts to show up when you’re knee-deep in a wrong decision. The kind that shows up only when it’s too late to do anything about it.

 _Is_ he wrong?

Are these guys just the stupid Sim troopers Carolina said they were?

Delta explained Sim troopers to him once….Low testers or dropouts, mostly. Criminals, sometimes, promised freedom after their contracted “tour” ends. Expendable Meat, the AI had added without remorse, earning a sharp “D!” from York as a result.

But he hadn’t been wrong. Project Freelancer collected “spare” humans from the bottom of the Universe’s barrel for their “tests.” Some outposts had been used for “situational military movement” experiments to test human nature during wartime or in the face of hard decisions. Others had been reserved for Freelancer practice/training missions.

Connie—C.T. had had her own two cents to add. The people the Project selected for Sim outposts were people who wouldn’t be missed or asked about, no matter what condition they ended up in, she had said. “Expendable Meat,” she’d echoed, nodding at Delta. No one had reprimanded her. But suddenly the idiots they’d been watching fight over a pair of colored flags seemed a lot less funny to the group standing on the observation deck.

Is that all these guys are? Wash leans more of his weight on the turret with a sigh. Hopeless idiots? Extras?

Is all of this for nothing?

Wash closes his eyes. If nothing else, at least he can pay his respects to Florida. Yet another fallen Freelancer to add to the depressingly long list.

 

“Uh, what’s that?”

Wash opens his eyes to see Grif pointing off into the distance with the hand that is not on the steering wheel.

“Oh! Huge birds!” Caboose shouts. “Can we keep them?”

“Those aren’t birds, you idiot! They’re UNSC Hornets!” Simmons’s voice squeaks higher than normal. Wash squints at the series of black specks in the distance. Sure enough. A small fleet of inbound Hornets mark the horizon. His heart picks up the pace just a little bit.

“What the hell do they want?” Grif is slowing down to prolong meeting the aircraft. Tucker matches his speed.

“Relax, guys,” Wash says. “They’re probably just surveying the area or something. Not everyone is out to kill us.”

 _Liar_ , previous experience whispers to him.

“Uh, hello? The UNSC are looking for us, remember?” Grif says.

Oh, right. Wash’s harmless exaggeration.

“I seriously doubt that’s what they’re up to,” Wash says flatly.

“How do you know?” Tucker asks.

“Bec—“ Wash stops himself short of admitting that he’d pretty much made the whole thing up. He counts to five.

“Look, just trust me, okay?” he snaps instead.

Because that’s going so well. Wash studies the Hornets cautiously. What if they _are_ looking for him and the Reds and Blues? He narrows his eyes. How could they even have found them out here?

There’s no possible way.

“Just keep it cool,” Wash says out loud, though he’s not sure who he’s talking to.

The closer the Hornets get, the more the tension in the two Warthogs rises.

“Attention! We are looking for wanted criminals against the UNSC that match your description!” A voice echoes over the field.

Five helmets turn to face Wash, very likely glaring at him…not that he’s looking back at them. His eyes are wide and focused on the Hornets.

No. Possible. Way.

“Son of a bitch!” is his only comment.

“Stop your vehicles immediately. Get out, drop your weapons, and strip out of your power armor,” the voice continues in a firm, no-nonsense tone.

“Bow chicka bow-wow,” Tucker mutters under his breath.

The corner of Wash’s mouth twitches toward an ironic grin as his brain simultaneously spits out curses and thanks whatever trickster god is in charge of his life that Donut decided to “keep house” and stay behind with Doc.

“What do we do?” Simmons demands.

What else is there to do?

“Open fire,” Wash says immediately. “We’ll take out the sides and meet in the middle. On my mark—“

“Wait!” Sarge interjects. “I have an idea!”

“Sarge—“ Wash tops and sighs. Oh why not. “Okay, fine. What?”

“We should do what the nice men in the shiny helicopters say,” he says.

Now five helmeted faces stare at Sarge. The old soldier rips off his helmet to give them a savage grin, steely eyes sparkling.

“And then we ambush ‘em!”

This is the worst idea Wash has heard. Ever. Of all time.

“Why would we do that? These turrets would do a better job of taking those hornets out,” Wash points out.

Sarge hops out of the warthog and drops his shotgun at his feet.

“Yes they would, Agent Washington,” he agrees in a slow voice, as though he’s talking to a small child or Caboose. “Blow ‘em right out of the sky. To smithereens, even.”

He nods sagely as if this makes some sort of sense. Wash stares, at a loss. The old Red soldier has completely lost it.

“Ohh!” Simmons says suddenly. “They _would,_ wouldn’t they?”

“Mmhmm,” Sarge nods again. Simmons starts climbing down from the turret. Grif lets out a soft _Ohh_ and starts to chuckle.

“What the _hell_ are you guys talking about?” Tucker shouts. “What’s going on?” Wash couldn’t say it better himself.

Grif turns off the Warthog.

“Uh, hey Blues. You know what’s faster than a Warthog?” He says.

“Yes. A lion,” Caboose replies immediately.

“A motherfuckin’ Hornet!” Grif says, ignoring him.

Wash’s eyebrows go up. Steal the Hornets…not a bad plan. Not bad at all. Well, not bad as long as UNSC didn’t send anyone competent, or the guys in the Hornets don’t decide to just blast them from the sky, or . . . there are any number of variables that could make this go horribly wrong in so many ways.

But still. It’s not a bad plan. It could even be a good plan.

“You do realize these guys might actually just kill us, right?” Wash says, tossing his rifle and pistol to the ground before hopping down from the turret.

“Stop being such a downer, dude.” Tucker says, shaking his head.

“Yeah, it’ll be fine!” Grif adds.

“Oh man, this is going to be so much fun!” Caboose crows.

 _Expendable Meat_ , Delta echoes. The ghost of York raises his eyebrow. These, he says to Wash, are your heroes?

 

UNSC Retrieval Team Tango is confused.

Their mission is to capture six renegade Sim troopers and take them back to base to stand trial for a lengthy list of impossible crimes against the UNSC. Supposedly, these guys fucked with the whole Project Freelancer…who are already notorious for being illegally tough. That’s crazy enough on its own.

But as Team Tango walks toward the six (alleged) criminals, they realize just how crazy it is.

Five men stand in a row, wearing black bodysuits and boots—one hard framed blonde with hints of a vast collection of scars, a shortish guy with dark skin and ragged dreads—both with a blueish, purplish tint, a craggly old man grinning like he just escaped the local psych ward, a heavyset man sporting what appears to be almost patchwork golden and white skin, and a skinny white cyborg. The sixth male is a tall guy with broad shoulders and white-blonde hair, standing buck-ass naked and giggling like a child.

“I think we’ve got the wrong guys,” Brown mutters to Kucharik.

“Shut up,” Philips says through his teeth. “These are the ones. _Keep your hands up!_ ” The last is directed toward the six Sim troopers.

“Hi! How are ya?” Sarge calls out cheerfully.

“Shut up!” This from Alverson. “I don’t like your tone.”

“Hey, let’s take it easy,” Wash says in his best North voice. “We’re cooperating.”

The tension is not impressed. Excited energy circulates through the Reds and Blues. Tight, military anxiety stretchs across the UNSC soldiers. Wash can almost feel the two opposing energies coming to meet each other like a storm about to burst. He waits.

The soldiers approach slowly—caution lacing every movement. Was wonders what stories they’ve heard about this crew.

He wonders how many stories they actually believe.

The Reds and Blues get giddier with every step the soldiers take. They reach a pre-decided boulder with a specifically anatomical shape and Sarge breaks the silence.

“You want to see anything?” He asks helpfully. “Caboose’s collection of pretty rocks, maybe?”

“Uh, they’re actually pretty _weird_ rocks,” Caboose corrects him.

“No—“ Philips starts.

“Or the inside of Grif’s helmet? Pretty neat if you like scary stuff. Or bacteria!” Sarge continues. His voice is disgustingly syrupy.

“Soldier, you—“ Brown tries.

“How ‘bout my _shotgun!_ ” The last word is shouted.

Wash has to grin—This trick is more fun on this side of the shotgun. Sarge kicks his favored weapon out of the grass at his feet and into his hands. Wash does the same with his pistol. They charge forward yelling.

As planned, Simmons falls back and climbs up into the warthog’s turret.

“Caboose, help Simmons!” Tucker says, feeling around in the grass for wherever he dropped his sword.

“Okay!” Caboose says.

“What? No!” Simmons yelps. Tucker curses as he stands upright, sword bursting to life.

“Right, sorry. Caboose! Those guys are our new friends! Get in the turret and help them!” he says.

“Okay!” Caboose says, none of his enthusiasm lost.

“Better!” Simmons comments.

Caboose climbs into the turret and some straggling soldiers near the back fall to the ground.

“Sorry!” Caboose calls.

Sarge blasts two of the men with his shotgun and butts a third in the face with the end of it as he reloads. Tucker cuts through the middle of the group with his sword while Wash takes out the right flank.

It shouldn’t work, but within minutes, the Reds and Blues are lowering their weapons.

“That…went well,” Wash tries not to sound surprised as he turns to the others. But he is. They completed an actual military movement. Successfully, no less.

“Wait, where’s Grif?” Sarge asks, looking around.

“Sir, he’s over there!” Simmons points from atop the warthog. He jumps down and runs over to where his comrade is lying in a taller patch of grass.

“Well? Is he dead?” Sarge asks.

“He’s…he’s asleep!” Simmons can’t keep the admiration out of his voice, nor can he stop disgust from seeping in around the edges. Wash has to admit, even he’s pretty impressed. Two machine gun turrets, a shotgun, a pistol, and a minor skirmish aren’t quiet. Nor did any of that take very long.

In fact, the only person who doesn’t appear to be impressed is Sarge.

“What?” He stomps over to his “fallen” soldier, growling. He kicks Grif hard in the side.

“Get up, Dirtbag!” He says.

“Ugggh,” Grif curls into a ball around the wounded side. “That really hurt. I’m not wearing armor!”

“Didn’t stop you from _not_ getting killed in action!” Sarge snaps. “Get up and go see if you can fly those things.”

Grif uncurls and sits up. He grins through his pained grimace. The resulting effect is much less impressive than he had hoped for. He mostly manages to look crazed.

“No problem!” he says.

As they all start piecing their armor back together (after convincing Caboose that he really does need to get dressed now), Wash gives Grif a skeptical look.

“Hey, have you ever flown a Hornet before?” he asks.

“Nah, but hey, how hard could it be? I didn’t know how to fly a Pelican either, and look how good I did!” Grif says, before sucking his breath in so he can fasten his chest piece.

“Dude, you _crashed_ the Pelican,” Tucker reminds him, looking up from the clasps of his gauntlets. Wash shakes his head, remembering the incident. He’s still not sure how any of them—let alone _all_ of them survived that crash.

“Psh, that’s not flying, that’s landing. I did the flying part just fine, thanks,” Grif replies.

“He’s not wrong. Crashing is not flying,” Caboose adds helpfully.

“Thank you, Caboose,” Grif says, grinning wide.

That seed of doubt twitches in Wash’s chest. He’s wrong. Again. He’s taking these guys on a crazy, half-baked adventure just because the craziest of all of them thinks he used to know the Director. He’s gonna get these guys killed just because he _thinks_ they have some higher purpose. Because he _needs_ them to have some higher purpose. Because this is his team.

            Wash takes a deep breath and holds it. He counts to ten.

            He listens.

            “Simmons, can you send a transmission back to their command? Let ‘em know that they’re on to something and they’ll be out in the field for another….mmm….maybe week or two. That’s enough time, right Washington?” Sarge says. “Should keep ‘em off our scent for a while.”

            “Sounds good to me,” Simmons says.

            Wash doesn’t answer.

            “Good news, I think I can not only fly these things, but…hold your applause…I think I can land them!” Grif says, poking his head out of the Hornet.

            Not entirely useless, he corrects Delta. Maybe not exceptional, but they’re _not_ useless.

 


	5. Circus Freaks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not know anything about cars or racing or anything. I pretty much just made everything up. So if the science doesn't quite add up, I do apologize. >.

“Where’s Mom?” Kai finally asks.

Dexter gives a low whistle before he can stop himself. Three days later and he would have owed Logan sixty bucks. The cousins had bet whether it would take Kai over or under a month to notice their mother’s absence (because she’d been around _so_ much before).

To be fair, Dexter knew Kai had noticed almost immediately. But until she asked, her older brother knew she’d keep hoping their mother would walk back in the door like nothing had ever happened. Dexter wasn’t about to tell her otherwise. Siblings don’t betray each other like that.

“Medical school,” Dexter says now. “She thought if she got a degree, she could figure out what’s wrong with her stupid daughter.”

“No, seriously,” Kai says. Her dark eyes are huge. She’s trying not to cry. Dexter meets her eyes and nods.

“Medical school,” he repeats. “Dead serious.”

 

She asks him again the next day.

“Deep in the jungle. She got tired of the island and decided to be an explorer,” Dexter says.

“Dex!” Kai shrieks.

“What? You asked! I ‘m just telling you,” Dexter says. “Chips?”

“No, I don’t want chips! I want Mom!” Kai storms off.

 

“The moon. Not the blue one, the yellow one,” Dexter says, pointing, when Kai asks him three days later. She hits him—the fast, girly slaps that only a little sister can really make hurt.

“Ow! Stop!” Dexter covers his head with his arms.

“Stop lying to me!” Kai replies.

“Stop thinking I’m lying!” Dexter says. _“Umph”_ he adds as his sister jumps on him. She grabs his face with her hands. Her stupid sparkly nails are sharp.

“When are you gonna tell me?” Kai asks.

Dexter doesn’t have an answer for that either.

 

Kai asks every day after that. Dexter tells her their mother has joined an acting troupe, become a beach bum on another planet, is a professional hitchhiker, and is providing school bus rides for alien babies on Venus.

Dexter learns to see the fear in her question and the hidden smile of relief every time he lies to her. He isn’t sure what she needs more…to know the truth or to keep hearing lies.

He keeps telling lies. He tells himself it’s not because it’s easier than telling her the truth. He tells himself he’ll tell her the truth someday—when one of them isn’t afraid of her heart breaking.

 

“A million miles underwater. Deep sea diving for treasure. She saw what you want for your birthday and knew she was gonna need more cash,” Dexter says one day, after Kai’s customary “Where’s Mom” that now serves as a greeting.

Silence. That’s weird.

Dexter pushes himself out from under the car he’s working on. Kai’s frowning at him with a new fire in her eyes. There’s a bruise on her face and another on her shoulder.

“What happened to you?” He asks.

“Kid at school tried to tell me where Mom went and where I’m going,” Kai says. She raises her head to look down at him. “You gonna give me a real answer?”

“Tell ‘em she went deep sea diving and so can they. None of their damn business. You okay?” Dexter crawls out from under the car and goes to touch Kai’s face so he can get a better look. She flinches away and the fire is gone. So is she. She slips out of the garage with her head down, muttering something about homework “or whatever.”

Dexter watches her go.

She’s only fourteen.

The wrench in his hand finds its way across the room. It bounces off the wall and skids across the floor.

It’s not fair.

He’s only seventeen.

It’s not fair at all.

Dexter looks at the car he’s supposed to be working on. Suddenly, all he wants to do is take the longest nap in the history of naps. He’s exhausted. He just wants to sleep and not think about any of this.

“Eh, an hour won’t hurt anything,” he says to no one, flopping down on the battered couch against the wall.

 

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Dexter growls, shifting gears. He really wishes he hadn’t taken that nap, now. This car should’ve already been in peak condition.

Dexter whips the car around the tight mountain curves. The tires screech in protest.

“You stupid whore, come _on!_ ” Dexter shouts.

“Dude, shut up, holy shit. You’re winning, okay?” Logan’s voice crackles in his ear. “You’re busting out my eardrum.”

“Yeah, but I’m not gonna beat my time. That’s $50 extra!” Dexter says.

“So? You’re _winning_. The pot is pretty huge. You’ve got the bills covered _easy_ ,” Logan says.

“It’s almost Kai’s birthday,” Dexter says.

For a moment all he hears is the roar of his car.

“Take the cave pass coming up. You’ve got enough umph to jump the gap now,” Logan says.

“Okay. Next left?” Dexter confirms.

“Yeah, go!” Logan says.

As Dexter drifts into the cave, he remembers what gap Logan is talking about. Ice drops down his spine.

“Hey, are you sure I’ve got enough umph?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah. Should be fine,” Logan says.

“Uh, should be? The hell is should be?” Dexter shouts, even as he shifts so he’s riding on an old set of minecart rails.

“We haven’t tested it, I know. But I’m pretty confident—“

“Pretty confident? Like how confident? You know I didn’t finish the upgrades, right?”

“Logan?” Dexter is almost screaming.

“What’s your speed?” Logan asks.

“98,” Dexter replies before the question is even through.

“Punch it. You’re gonna either need more speed or more air,” Logan says.

“Dammit!” Dexter yells. He rides up the left wall as the tunnel narrows. The gap approaches faster than Dexter thinks is physically possible.

“Dex!” Logan yelps.

Dexter lets out a wild shriek as he floors the gas and shoots off the edge of the gap. The car is nearly sideways.

“Straighten out!” Logan’s voice is frantic. Dexter shoves his door open and, hanging on to the door for dear life, leans out the side. The car begins to straighten out. Dexter pulls back into the car as the front wheels touch the dirt. He isn’t sure who is screaming louder, him or Logan.

“Holy shit you made it!”

“Holy shit, that was awesome!”

The rest of the drive is an adrenaline high that Dexter can’t really remember later. He’s still coming down, shaking and sweating when the other drivers get down the mountain to the finish line. There are a few missing. Dexter knew there would be—there always were when the race was on the mountains.

Logan keeps pounding on Dexter’s shoulder, glasses slipping down his face. Dexter tries to ignore him and focuses on looking cool and collected. Or, as cool and collected as a large, sweaty kid can.

“Well well well, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the end of the race!” A thin, suited white guy strides out of the door at the base of the Watchtower. His hair is a vivid green today, and slicked back. He beams at the racers.

“You put on quite a show tonight,” Dalton says, “Especially my boy Grif here.”

Logan has stopped hitting Dexter and is now clutching at his sleeve. Dexter tries to shake him off.

“He fucking cheated!” Mei’a, snaps, the orange beads in her long black braids clacking together as she shakes her head. She lives two doors down from Dexter. It’s pretty unfortunate, actually.

“Dude, I would’ve beaten you no matter what,” Dexter says, smirking at her.

“Hey, let’s not ruin the moment, kids.” Dalton is grinning. He points toward the small structure at the base of the Watchtower.

“Go collect your winnings. Plenty for everyone!”

If you reach the finish and don’t die, you get fifty bucks. The prizes grow from there. The rich kids in charge of the game like to add on challenges and bonuses. Half of them are death-defying feats. The richies call it “making the game interesting.” Some of the racers call it cruel. Dexter calls it an easy paycheck. It’s all about entertaining the richies, not just about winning. He takes about two steps toward the structure, but Dalton stops him.

“You, kid, should come with me,” he says.

Dexter shrugs and follows Dalton. Mei’a is shooting him death glares. Dexter puffs out his chest and raises his chin as they walk past her, savoring the moment.

“What is…this?” Dalton is making vague gestures toward Logan as though he’s some unknown species.

“My crew,” Dexter says at the same time as Logan says

“His cousin.”

“Uh. Okay.” Dalton makes a face. Richies don’t have that much patience for ghetto kids like them…Dexter knows he’s only an exception because of his driving but Logan…they don’t have much use for a skinny nerd who can’t stop gawking. They reach the base of the Watchtower and Dalton turns to enter a code into a panel.

“Hey, maybe you should stay here,” Dexter says to Logan in a low voice.

“What? Fuck you!” Logan brings up both hands with every intention of putting up a fight.

“Come on, man, don’t mess with me, okay?” Dexter says, but he taps his ear and twists a bead on his “hemp” necklace, turning his mic back on. Logan sighs.

“Hey, I should go start diagnostics on the car,” he says loud enough for Dalton to hear. The richie turns around, eyebrow rings flashing. He grins widely.

“Maybe next time,” he says in a voice that is very clear; there won’t actually be a next time.

An elevator arrives, the doors sliding open as a woman’s silky voice purrs “Ground floor.” Dexter follows Dalton onto the elevator. Logan hangs back and shoots Dexter his best wounded-puppy look. Dexter raises his eyebrows and frowns.

“You did cheat,” Dalton says conversationally as the doors close. Dexter meets Dalton’s eyes in the mirrors that make up the walls of the elevator. Dalton wiggles his eyebrows playfully, smirking. Dexter is momentarily hypnotized by the light bouncing off Dalton’s eyebrow rings again. He wonders if they’re studded with real diamonds.

“Nah, it was too hard to be cheating,” Dexter says. “Cheating is supposed to make stuff easier. I just made it cooler. That’s not cheating. That’s skills.”

Dalton laughs.

“I like it. But technically, it’s still against the rules,” he says. Dexter takes a breath to reply but Dalton isn’t finished.

“You don’t mind bending the rules to make things…cooler…do you, Grif?” he asks.

This sounds like a trick question. Dexter narrows his eyes.

“No?” he tries, not sure what he’s going to do if it’s the wrong answer.

“Good,” Dalton says. He smirks but doesn’t elaborate.

“So, I mean, am I getting paid?” Dexter asks. “I did win.”

“Yeah, you’re getting paid. Well, I mean, I’ll give you today’s meager winnings,” Dalton shrugs.

“Woah, meager?” Dexter straightens. Is his promised cut getting taken away? Dalton shrugs again.

“Yeah. You know. The five hunny. Petty cash,” he says.

“Oh, this is a stupid Richie thing. Got it,” Dexter says before he can stop himself. But really, come on. Prince Dalton strutting his bottomless cash around? Yawn. He can’t help but be a little annoyed.

Dalton’s smirk widens.

“No, this is me offering you a chance to make at least ten times that.”

In Dexter’s ear, Logan curses in awe.

“How?” Dexter asks, the question dripping with suspicion.

The elevator reaches its destination. Dalton ushers Dexter into the room, ignoring his last question. Dexter suddenly feels very underdressed in his torn, oil stained jeans and grimy t-shirt. The colored lights are dim, but bright enough to show the other young men in suits and women in curve-hugging dresses all turning to stare at him.

“This our boy?” a guy with orange dreadlocks asks.

“You saw him jump that gap,” a woman with a red bob that matches her lipstick says, smiling. “This kid can drive.”

“Come on, Grif. Let’s chat. Drink?” Dalton asks, walking over to the bar.

Dexter follows, staring out the window. Somehow, he has an aerial view of the whole mountain. But how is that even possible? Dalton catches him looking and reaches under the bar. The scene changes and the wall—not actually clear glass—becomes a series of moving colors and shapes. The whole wall is a screen. Duh. Now Dexter feels dumb.

“Anything?” Dalton asks.

“Just water,” Dexter says, not wanting to do anything else dumb. “Dehydrated from the race,” he adds out loud. Logan is calling him names. Dexter ignores him and takes the glass Dalton offers him.

“So what was that about ten times more payout?” Dexter asks, trying to regain his cool. He probably shouldn’t be here.

“You’re a good driver and a rule breaker. We’re recruiting for a new game. Interested?” Dalton asks.

“You gotta be fast,” purrs the woman in red, leaning on the bar next to Dexter. “Think you can drive anything?”

Dexter looks around at the richies gathered to stare at him. He takes a long drink of his water to buy himself time. Something about their new game scares him. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to be anywhere but at home, sleeping. Or maybe eating something.

But a payout like that…

“What kind of game?” Dexter asks.

 

Dexter gets home at the same time as Kai does. She tries to pretend that she’s been home for hours.

“How’d it go?” she asks.

Dexter wants to ask her where she’d been and whether the mark on her collar bone is a new bruise or a hickey. He doesn't ask. He’s not sure he wants to know. But more than that, he doesn’t want to chase her away yet.

“I won,” Dexter says.

“Sweet!” Kai gives him a smile, but it seems a little too wide. Dexter tries to ignore that and presses on.

“I got invited to a bigger, more exclusive event,” he says. “The payout is gonna be huge.”

“What is it?” Kai asks.

“Uh, well,” he trails off. This is what he wants to tell her. He needs to tell someone. He and Logan didn’t talk about it. They rode home in a pensive silence.

“It’s a joyride. I have to go grab a vehicle, take it around the course, and get clear,” he says.

Kai’s smile fades.

“Isn’t that illegal?” she asks.

“Kai, all my races are illegal,” Dexter points out.

“No, but this is really illegal. You’re gonna get arrested!” Kai is yelling.

“Nah, only if I get caught,” Dexter says coolly.

Dexter! How are you not gonna get caught?” Kai demands.

“Hey, I’m the best driver there is,” Dexter says. “Plus, I’m the favorite. The richies will bail me out, no problem.”

“You’re so stupid! What if they come looking for you? They’ll find out Mom’s gone and take me away!” Her eyes are full of tears again. Dexter closes his own eyes, ignoring his pounding heart.

“No they won’t. I won’t let that happen,” he says. There’s a long pause.

“Where’s Mom?” Kai asks. Dexter takes a deep breath to reply. “They’re going to ask,” Kai adds before he can speak.

“She’s at an art show in France. She’s gonna be a hit over there and bring back loads of cash. Won’t even be a problem,” Dexter says.

“What if they don’t believe you, either?” Kai folds her arms.

Dexter sighs, opening her eyes. His sister’s cheeks are wet.

“Here’s what you do. Tell ‘em your mom is a circus freak and you just didn’t want to say. Cry a little. Beg them not to tell anyone ‘cause you’re so ashamed,” he says. Kai sniffs, but there might have been a giggle in there somewhere.

“What if they ask why?” Kai mumbles. She leans in so Dexter can hug her. He wraps her in his arms and inhales an aroma of alcohol and weed. His throat is tight. The new game could fix this. Give both of them a kickstart to a better life.

“Tell ‘em she’s the bearded lady,” Deter says. “They’re not touchin’ that shit.”

Kai is shaking against his chest, but is she laughing or crying?

 

“This is a bad idea.”

“Shut up, Logan.”

“Dude, we’re so busted.”

“Logan. We’re not even to the Watchtower yet and there’s not a cop for miles. Shut up or I’m kicking you out of the car.”

Dexter wishes they were already there. Once he drops Logan at the tech station, he can mute him so he doesn’t have to listen to the doubts he’s already trying to ignore.

They pull up to the Watchtower a few minutes later.

“Where are the other racers?” Logna asks. “Shit, sorry.”

“No, you’re right,” Dexter murmurs.

He doesn’t like this. He puts the car in park and gets out. His palms are starting to sweat. He wipes them on his jeans.

“Hey! Anyone here?” Dexter calls. His voice cracks. Logan is a few steps behind him, pale and folding in on himself.

“Hey there, Grif!” The elevator door his opened to reveal Dalton and Dreads. Dalton is almost bouncing with delight.

“Where are the other racers?” Dexter echoes Logan’s question.

“This is less of a race against other people and more of a race against time,” Dalton says, glancing at Dreads. Dreads grins.

“Okay…” Dexter says.

He really doesn’t like this.

“All right. Here’s the game. Get to the other side of the island. There’s a…” Dalton falters.

“Storage facility,” Dreads offers.

“Yeah,” Dalton grins. “There’s a storage facility. You’ll know which one when you get there. Get in, take the vehicle you find there and bring it back here, got it?”

Dread’s grin widens, looking almost wolfish in the dusk.

“This sounds less like racing and more like grand theft auto,” Dexter says.

“Hey, it’s a joy ride, okay? We’re gonna take it back when we’re done playing,” Dalton says.

“So let me get this straight. If I do this for you, I get the five grand, right?” Dexter says slowly.

“Minimum, as promised,” Dalton says.

“You get bonuses for time, how little damage you do, and whether you get caught,” Dreads says.

“Details.” Dalton waves his hand dismissively. “You’ll figure it out. “

Dreads holds out a little silver disc.

“Take this. It’ll get you to your objective and give you instructions,” he says.

Dexter takes the device without looking too closely at it. He knows it’s probably also going to track his location. No running.

“Start when you’re ready!” Dalton says cheerfully. But he leans forward—close enough that Dexter can smell his Richie cologne and at least a hunny worth of fancy whiskey.

“Don’t let us down, Grif,” Dalton mutters in his ear.

“Yeah.” Dexter bites the word off hard.

He wants to do anything but this. He wants to go home and never come back. For the first time ever, Dexter Grif seriously considers getting a real job. Even if it means getting up every single morning. Even that seems better than this.

“Come on, Logan,” he says out loud. Logan pales further—Dexter didn’t think it was possible.

“Bro, I don’t—“ Logan stutters.

“I’m not leaving my car for anyone else to find. You’ve gotta drive it back here,” Dexter snaps.

He storms toward his car. Logan follows a couple of paces behind him. They get in and Dexter peels out as he takes off.

“Dude, let’s just go home,” Logan says, his voice too high. “I’m all for a big payday, but this isn’t just illegal racing and tampering with vehicles. This is really fucking illegal.”

“Yeah. Which is why we’re only doing this once,” Dexter replies.

“You’re going through with this?” The question is surprisingly quiet.

“What else can I do?” Dexter gives the car more gas. They are screaming around the mountain. A tinny voice calls out turns and course adjustments.

“Anything but this, maybe?”

Dexter doesn’t say anything. Logan is right but…$5k alone will pay off their bills for a few months—it’ll get Kai new clothes and maybe into a better school. It’ll buy some time for Dexter to turn 18 and get a real job. $5k can change everything. And if he can get some of those bonuses…

“Just this once,” he says. He directs the comment not only toward Logan, but toward the device. He wouldn’t be surprised if Dalton and his friends are listening in. Rich kids don’t give kids like Dexter gadgets like that for no reason.

They drive in silence after that. Dexter burns through two cigarettes before the device notifies them that their destination is ahead.

Please no.

“Uhh…do you see anything?” Dexter asks. He squints.

“Besides the giant fucking military facility?” Logan is shouting again.

“I was hoping that wasn’t real,” Dexter groans. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

A blue light blinks into existence on the device.

“A2124.” The device repeats this over and over.

“What does that mean?” Dexter asks.

“It’s the unit number, look!” Logan points. There are a series of doors just over the chain link fence. From the road, Dexter can see A2120, A2122, and finally A2124. Shit.

“Dalton, you dick! You’re going to get us killed!” Dexter is screaming into the device.

But he slows down in front of the unit.

Now what? The garage facing them looks easy enough to get into but seriously, come on. A military compound? There’s no way.

Dexter puts his hand on the shift and licks his lips. He can drive away right now and everything will be fine.

The payout could change everything.

Dexter curses in every language he’s picked up off the street. Logan watches through his fingers, knowing what’s coming.

“I’ll see you at the Watchtower,” Logan says to him finally.

“Dex…” Logan whispers, shaking his head.

“Dude. I will see you later,” Dexter says. He pointedly gets out of the car and shuts the door. He watches as Logan stares at him for a few seconds, then climbs into the drivers seat. He hesitates. Dexter glares at him until he drives away, though his brain is screaming _take me with you!_

When he’s alone, Dexter turns his attention toward the fence. This is a problem. Even pretending that the fence isn’t electrified, Dexter is 5’10” and closing in on 300 pounds. There’s no way his lard ass is getting over that fence.

For no reason other than curiosity, Dexter walks alongside the fence, looking for a door. He finds one. It isn’t helpful in any way—a small computer controls the lock. Dexter is no hacker—there’s no way he’s figuring out how to break in to that.

“Madeline.” The device in his pocket starts repeating.

“Who? What? Do I need to call this person?” Dexter asks his pocket. The device continues repeating the name.

“Huh.” Dexter shrugs. For a moment he just listens. Then, on a whim, he types the name in on the computer.

“Welcome,” the computer says as the door slides open.

“Okay,” Dexter breathes. He walks in. The door stays open.

The facility is too empty. There are no alarms or anything alerting anyone to his presence. It doesn’t feel right.

Cautiously, Dexter make his way back to the garage. There is no computer for him to type a password into here.

He looks up and down for a padlock or something. Of course there’s not one. He can pick a padlock—that’d be too easy.

He’s never that lucky.

Dexter looks the door up and down before attempting to simply shove it open. It doesn’t move. He tries again. Only when he fails several more times and flops onto the ground gasping does Dexter notice the device calling out another instruction.

“Place on door!”

“Place what on door?” Dexter asks it.

“Place on door!”

“Place _what_ on door?”

This continues for a few moments before Dexter realizes that he’s supposed to place the device itself on the door. He rests the bottom of the device on the door and feels it pull like a magnet. He lets go and the magnet sticks.

“Huh,” says Dexter. “Okay, so—“

“Please stand back!” The device calls out, then begins counting backward from ten.

Dexter’s eyes widen. He stumbles backward and falls over. The count down continues. Dexter scrambles backward.

“Son of a –“

The door explodes, drowning out Dexter’s cry. Light and sirens burst into life.

“I _really_ don’t want to do this anymore!” Dexter screams.

He looks up at the vehicle sitting in the garage unit. He wrinkles his nose. All this for an ugly purple motorcycle—wait—no—

“The hell is that?” Dexter gets to his feet and inspects the thing in the garage. It’s mostly a motorcycle, he decides. But without wheels. Or human languages. It’s actually really cool.

“Do not move!” A voice booms out. “You are in a restricted area. Get on the ground and put your hands behind your head!”

Dexter immediately moves. And he moves fast. The message repeats:

“Do not move!”

“Fuck that!” Dexter shots from on top of the purple motorcycle. He fumbles around, looking at the strange symbols on what looks like a control panel.

“Okay, so uh…” Dexter’s fingers fly over the control panel. “Ignition?”

The thing whirrs to life. It bucks into the air. Dexter struggles to hang on. The vehicle swivels down and remains steady just a few feet above the ground.

“Okay.” Dexter takes a deep breath.

“Do not take that vehicle,” The voice sounds angry now.

Dexter leans forward, his hands grasping for controls he only assumes exist.

Good news.

They do.

The purple bike shoots forward. With a wild whoop, Dexter tears out of the garage and toward the gate. He tests a few movements. Whatever the thing is, it handles amazing. Every minute shift of weight is taken into consideration. He has total control of the angle, the speed, everything. The beautiful feeling of driving a well-tuned vehicle almost overrides the pure terror coursing through Dexter’s blood. Almost.

By the time Dexter lines up the shot, he’s got the hang of the steering. He shoots through the gate, shifting sideways to fit through the door. He races into the night with the voice shouting after him.

This is freedom.

Dexter is shouting and gliding across the dirt roads.

He wants one of these.

But first, he’s taking this thing back to Dalton.

He can’t wait to get back to the mountain. This thing is going to give them a show they’ll pay a real pretty penny for.

 

“Hey!” Dexter’s heart leaps up into his throat. He looks over his shoulder. Three UNSC motorcycles (actual motorcycles, not the weird alien thing he’s got) are behind him. Three soldiers decked out in full armor are riding them.

“Shit,” Dexter mutters.

“That ghost is the property of the UNSC!” The gold-clad soldier riding the foremost motorcycle calls out.

Dexter doesn’t reply. He leans forward and speeds up. He’s almost to the mountain. He can lose them there.

“Nevada!” The gold soldier calls out. The orange and brown armored soldier to his right veers off and disappears into the night. The two remaining spread out to flank Dexter. He glances over his shoulder to see them pulling out weapons. Not cool.

He may not know how to…whatever. Soldier. Or fight. Or anything like that. But he can race, so that’s what he does. He turns sharp, where the pass starts. The two soldiers are forced to fall into a straight line behind him as the road starts its steep climb.

Dexter leads the two soldiers up the twistiest path he knows. They have to focus on driving so they can’t shoot at him, which is his goal. Now, if he can just find the right cave.

“Are you online?” A small voice in his ear. Logan!

“Dude, I’m in trouble.” Dexter says.

“Yeah, we know,” Logan says. “What’s your plan?”

“This thing has way more juice than my car. That gap should be no problem,” Dexter says.

He can hear drunken whoops in the background. Somewhere in his brain, he’s annoyed at the richies’ excitement.

“You’re going to take it backward?” Logan’s voice is incredulous.

“How close am I? I’ve got two guys behind me and they are not happy!” Dexter asks.

            “You’ve got the wide curve and then the second right is the cave you’re looking for,” Logan says. “You look like you’re going really fast….what’s your speed?”

            “Hell if I know. I can’t read anything on this thing!” Dexter says.

            “What?”

            “It’s like some alien shit or something,” Dexter explains. “Oh shit!” he adds, ducking as he hears a gunshot behind him.

            “How are you driving an alien vehicle?” Logan’s voice has taken on a specific tone that Dexter likes to describe as the “nerd tone.”

            “It’s not that hard. The hard part is getting _shot at by crazy people_!” Dexter screams the last part over his shoulder. “Do you want this thing back or not?”

            “Doesn’t matter, friend! We just don’t want _you_ to have it!” the soldier in blue and white armor calls back in accent that Dexter _thinks_ used to be called Australian.

            Dexter passes the first right and takes the second in a sudden swivel. He catches the sound of cursing behind him, but moments later, the cave fills with the sound of roaring motorbikes.

            “Dex, I really wish we knew how fast you were going. You need a lot of momentum to make that jump going the opposite direction…” Logan says nervously.

            “Well, if this thingy is the speedometer, it looks like I’m going spiky moon thing, fucked up rectangle point…I think that looks like a six space-miles per hour. Think that’ll be enough?” Dexter says. He can see the jump. His palms are sweating as he rides up the wall just like he did before. His vehicle leaps up higher than his car would have. Dexter leans forward and gives the thing all the juice he can get.

            “Come on, come on, come on,” he says through his teeth. He flies off the edge of the gap. His left foot slips off the peg and hits something that flips backward. Suddenly, the vehicle leaps, soaring higher and faster at once.

            “How the _hell_ are you doing that?” one of the soldiers yells behind him.

            “Shit!” the other adds.

            Dexter lands and looks over his shoulder. The blue soldier has slid off the edge of the gap. The gold soldier is frantically trying to pull his comrade back up.

            “See ya later losers!” Dexter calls out before taking off again.

            He slowly becomes aware of Logan yelling in his ear.

            “What did you do? You glitched out your tracker!”

            “I don’t know but it was really fucking cool!” Dexter says. “I am so getting one of these!”

            He exits the cave and reaches the peak of the mountain within minutes. He doesn’t see the two soldiers again. His heart soars with adrenaline and exhilaration. He did it. And from the sounds of screaming and cheering in the background, he’s impressed the richies enough that he’s pretty sure there’s going to be a decent bonus in this payout. Things are going to get better. _Finally_.

            As Dexter reaches the bottom of the mountain, he tries to slow his thoughts. Something important lies just beyond his reach. What is it? He’s forgetting something.

            The Watchtower comes into view, but in the foreground, an orange figure blocks the road. Oh yeah. Right. There were _three_ soldiers in SPARTAN armor.

            Fuck.

            Dexter grits his teeth and gets ready to swerve around the soldier. After all, it’s not like going off road is going to screw up his nonexistent tires. He can just hover over whatever. The soldier holds up a green, glowy gun and fires. The vehicle falls to the ground. Dexter falls on top of it with an “Oof.” There’s silence over the line; his earpiece is dead, too.

            “What the hell was that?” Dexter asks, climbing off the vehicle.

            “That was an EMP. We use it to stop thieves like you. Now, if you don’t mind, you’re coming with me,” The soldier says coldly.

            _What do you know? Kai was called it,_ Dexter thinks with a sinking heart. Now what?

 

            Dexter isn’t alone in the back of the transport. Well, he wouldn’t have been regardless. The three SPARTAN-clad soldiers are sitting near the cab, helmets off. The one in orange armor—Nevada—is a dark skinned guy with a hard face and a bull-ring in his nose. The one in gold has cheekbones that could cut glass and the kind of “helmet hair” that screams Pretty-Boy. The blue-armored guy has gold almond-shaped eyes and bleach-tipped black spikes.

Closer to the doors, Dexter, Dalton, Dreads, and Logan get their own comfy seats and sets of handcuffs. Dalton is shooting daggers at Dexter with his eyes, his neon hair flopping ungracefully into his face.

            “You got caught, stupid. No pay,” he slurs.

            “I’m pretty sure getting paid isn’t my biggest problem right now,” Dexter says. He’s having a hard time taking Dalton seriously in his current state.

            “Pssssh,” Dalton shakes his head. “Just m’dad. He’s not gonna do anything.”

            “Your _what_?” Logan squeaks, eyes popping.

            “Shut up,” Dreads says, though whether he’s saying it to Logan or Dalton is unclear.

            “His father is the guy who’s _supposed_ to be in charge of that facility,” the pretty-boy soldier in gold armor offers helpfully. “And _his_ father is one of the science guys who works there.” He points at Dreads, whose already sour frown deepens.

            “How do you think they got you in?” Nevada says.

Dexter doesn’t say that he just assumed they used rich kid toys. Now that he thinks about it, it makes way more sense that they’ve got connections inside the actual facility.

            “It’s _fine_ ,” Dalton insists. But he looks a little paler than usual.

            “If your old man doesn’t do something, I’m pretty sure there are other people who are going to want to talk to you,” Pretty Boy says, raising his eyebrows. Dalton pales further and doesn’t reply.

            “Especially since _we_ had to come chasing after this crazy guy,” the soldier in blue armor says, pointing at Dexter with his thumb. “Man, I don’t know what they would have done if the Director—“

            “Hey, shut it Alaska,” Snaps the man in gold armor. “We’re not actually here, remember?”

            Dexter hears the threat in the question—it’s aimed at him and the others, even if the question is aimed at “Alaska.” There’s silence for a few minutes, except for the noise of the truck bouncing over the dirt roads. Then Pretty Boy frowns.

            “So uh…how _did_ you manage to drive that thing? It took us forever to figure out how to even turn it on,” he asks in a falsely conversational tone. Dexter shrugs.

            “It’s not that hard,” he says. He feels like he’s been saying that a lot lately.

            Dalton’s attitude is back. He leans forward, his head lolling toward Dexter.

            “My boy Grif here is the best driver. Ever,” he says.

            “Huh.” Pretty Boy sits back. He frowns with his mouth, but his eyes dance.

 

            Dexter has this conversation several more times. He only has it once more with Dalton to back him up. He has the pleasure of seeing a stiff military officer quake with anger when the hammered young man is dropped at his feet. The richies are left to the mercy of their parents while Dexter and Logan are escorted through the military facility by the three soldiers. They are interviewed together by military and science personnel alike. Finally, Logan is escorted out of the room. Dexter is left alone with a blank TV screen. For several minutes, nothing happens.

            “Hello?” he says.

            “Hello Dexter Grif,” a calm voice says. A smiling man appears on the screen. A frowning man in glasses stands beside him.

            “How are you feeling?” the smiling man asks in his calm, calculated voice.

            “Uh, okay I guess. Kinda hungry. And tired. Can I go home?” Dexter asks.

            He’s babbling. The two men make him nervous, though he’s not sure why.

            “You stole classified military equipment—“ the man in glasses snaps. The smiling man silences him with a look.

            “What we mean is, you have quite a talent for driving, Dexter. How did you know how to drive that vehicle?” The smiling man says.

            “Look, I don’t know. I knew I had to get out of there and that thing was just sitting there. I got on it and figured it out. It was…what’s it called. Trial and error.” Dexter says for the thousandth time.

            “You had no prior knowledge of that machine or its origin?” The smiling man asks.

            “No. I’ve never seen a crazy purple alien motorcycle before,” Dexter says flatly.

“You use the term alien—why do you assume that the machine is of alien origin?” The smiling man asks.

“Have you looked at it?” Dexter raises both eyebrows. “Seriously.”

The man in glasses scowls and leans close to the smiling man. He speaks low, but not low enough.

“I do not have time to interview idiots who got lucky,” the man in glasses snaps.

“Of course,” the smiling man says.

“I will trust your judgment, Counselor,” the man in glasses says louder. Dexter assumes this is for his benefit, though he can’t see how.

The smiling man turns to Dexter, his smile widening. The edge of a data pad comes into view as the smiling man appears to work with it.

“Dexter, we’d like to recruit you into the UNSC based on your exceptional skills,” the smiling man says. “Have you ever considered an army career?”

“Uh, first of all, no. Second, why?” Dexter says.

“We would like to offer you an…alternative to time in prison for crimes against the UNSC. We understand you are trying to support your sister? A Kaikaina Grif?” the smiling man looks down at his data pad.

Dexter freezes. _Kai_.

“Leave her alone,” he says.

“You misunderstand. We would like to offer you an opportunity to better care for your sister, if you choose to sign up. I believe correctional facilities would not be so generous,” the smiling man says without changing his tone at all. “It is your choice.”

 

Logan is standing in a stark waiting room, hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts. Dexter comes into the room and Logan lets out a deep breath of relief.

“Oh thank god. They’re letting you go,” Logan says, coming over to clasp hands with his cousin.

“Uh, actually, I’ve been drafted for a tour with the UNSC. After I finish out my contract, I can go home,” Dexter says.

“What? But what about Kai?” Logan says.

“I was hoping maybe she could stay with you guys? I’ll be able to send money home. We’ll have enough to take care of everything,” Dexter says, meeting Logan’s eyes. A series of conflicting emotions pass behind Logan’s glasses. Finally he nods.

“Man, I don’t know how I’m going to tell her,” Logan says.

Dexter laughs.

“When she asks, just tell her I joined the circus,” he says.

“You what?” Logan asks.

Dexter smiles.

“I followed Mom and joined the circus. She’ll get it,” he says. “It’ll be good.” To his surprise, he actually means it. Things are going to change for real this time. They’re going to get better.

_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyy! Welcome to the end of this chapter! You made it! 
> 
> Next up is another "story" chapter in which the BGC finally make it back home~!


	6. Home Sweet Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the feedback on Grif's chapter~!   
> This one might get revised later for clarity (I need to do that for Grif's, too) but if you see anything that needs fixing, let me know!

            To his credit, Grif doesn't _exactly_ crash the Hornet. It’s not what Wash would consider a great landing—or even a good one. But the Hornet is still flyable so Wash decides it counts as a landing (no matter how much Simmons disagrees). He’ll take what he can get with this group. Wash lands the Blue’s Hornet without incident, though in the back of his mind, he’s listing all the critiques FourSevenNiner would be giving him if she were here.

            To be fair, if she were here, Wash would have had all flying privileges revoked shortly after leaving the ground. If he even got that far. It’s entirely possible that she would have laughed at the mere suggestion of him flying instead of her. He shakes his head, remembering the time Niner’s Pelican was shot down. When MedEvac lifted her out, she woke up two minutes into the flight and demanded to be taken to the cockpit so she could “show these shit-for-brains how to make a left turn.” It had taken an impressive amount of sedatives to knock her back out.

            Wash returns to the present and to the five Sim soldiers standing awkwardly near the Hornets. They survey the box canyon suspiciously.

            “It’s smaller than I remember,” Simmons says.

            “Like high school,” Grif adds, nodding his agreement.

            Their commander grunts in disapproval.  

            “It’s too quiet! Where are the sounds of Red victory?” Sarge asks. “Did we miss it?”

            “It’s likely that they never reassigned this base to anyone,” Wash starts.

            “Yeah, ‘cause we totally destroyed Project Freelancer, remember?” Tucker cuts in.

            “We didn’t completely destroy it,” Wash says, frowning. You can’t really destroy something that’s already broken. And so long as he, Carolina, the Director, and anyone else who survived is still alive, the Project lives. No matter how much he hates that idea.

            “Whatever. This place sucks, just like it always has,” Tucker says.

            “Oh, come on, Tucker. This place is so awesome! It has so many memories, and you know what they say about memories,” Caboose says, leaving a pause for Tucker to fill in the blank. When he doesn't, Caboose continues doggedly. “They’re keys.”

            “Oh yeah, like there’s where you killed Church,” Tucker points to the cliff in sarcasm dressed up as excitement.

            “Okay, what did we say about the K word?” Caboose crosses his arms.

            “And there’s where you guys used to spy on us. You were really bad at that, you know?” Simmons says. There is less sarcasm and more actual enthusiasm in his voice—if only slightly.

            “And there’s the tree I used to sleep under, and the rock I slept next to, and that weird dip in the ground I slept in,” Grif says. “You’re right, Caboose. There _are_ a lot of memories here.”

            “Show me where you buried him,” Wash says….partially to stop this stroll down memory lane, mostly to stop the Reds and Blues from punching each other more than was necessary.

            Caboose does not stop babbling about various places and things in the canyon as the Reds and Blues guide Wash to their makeshift “Graveyard.” The others seem to listen with a sort of respectful nostalgia. Wash catches noises of agreement or gentle laughs as Caboose rattles off things like “and there’s where Lopez confessed his love to Sheila….who was obviously _not_ interested,” and “there’s where I passed out after Tucker’s baby ate all my blood.” Once, Tucker even lets out a strangled _“Shut up_ ” of protest when Caboose points out a certain boulder.

            Finally, they come to a place marked with three stones—wait. Three?

            “There he is. There’s Flowers,” Tucker says, shrugging toward one of the graves—the one with the plain stone.

            “Who are in the other two?” Wash asks, eyeing the cross and the star of David suspiciously.

“Those? Oh. One is for Tex and the other is where we put Church. The original one,” Tucker clarifies, then pauses, lowering his head, “or, well. Wait. _Our_ original one.”

            “So wait, you retrieved the bodies and didn't realizes that Church was an AI?” Wash asks, frowning.

            “You know, now that you say that, I’m confused. Church definitely was a dude. He had like…a face and stuff. We buried him because he was starting to smell….do AI smell?” Tucker says.

            “Digitally,” Caboose offers. He is ignored.

            Wash is staring at the graves as his palms start to sweat. Sigma received the ability to take over the consciousness of a human being from the Alpha. Alpha himself had done it several times—he’d deemed it “possession” and used it as evidence to his ghost-hood. The “possessed” person had had no idea what was going on. Could the Director really have implanted Alpha into a Sim soldier without _either_ of them knowing that it had happened? Would he really send his precious Alpha AI to a Sim base, housed in a stolen body?

            Yes.

            Absolutely.

            If any man were to do something like that, it’d be the Director.

            Wash wonders grimly whether he’ll be able to find the name of the man who was killed without knowledge of who he was or what he’d been chosen for. Even if he does find that information, Wash isn’t sure what he’ll do with it. Contact the next of kin? And then what would he say? Sorry to report that your loved one was brain-washed by a crazed scientist so he could be used as a body for an AI who thought he was a real boy and murdered by a member of his own team on accident? That had such a lovely ring to it. . .Wash could probably fit it on a “sorry for your loss” card.

            Wash looks at Tucker and the Reds. They are all silently staring at the grave of the suddenly unknown soldier. Wash has the feeling they’ve all realized what Wash has realized. He allows himself a small sigh of relief. Good. He doesn't really even know how to explain it to them.

            Instead, he drags his attention to Florida’s grave. In Tucker’s spiky handwriting, the name “Capt. Flowers” is carved faintly, as if the original cut was very shallow. In a few more years it will erode away entirely. His old comrade will rest in an unmarked grave.

            Wash refuses to recognize that Florida is one of the few afforded the luxury of any final resting place…marked or not.   

            “Tucker. You took his armor. What was he buried in?” Wash asks.

            “We buried him in my armor. I _traded_ him…I wouldn’t steal from a dead man,” Tucker says with an impressive amount of insulted snarl.

            “Okay, okay. You’re sure?” Wash says. He really doesn’t want to dig up this body.

            “Yes! Jeez!” Tucker shakes his head.

            “Then his Freelancer armor is somewhere in the base. We need to find it,” Wash says.

            “I ain’t setting a single toe inside Blue Base,” Sarge announces.

            “We’re on the same team now,” Tucker reminds him yet again. “Why does it matter?”

            “We may be on the same team, but it’s the principle of the thing! I ain’t going in there!” Sarge insists.

            “Fine. Wait out here. Anyone else?” Wash says through his teeth. His headache is coming back in full force.

            “We left my sister here…I want to know if she’s still here,” Grif says, voice surprisingly serious.

            “Your sister?” Wash frowns, then his head snaps up. “You mean the crazy teenage girl who was here when I first came looking for you?”

            “You met her? Was she okay?” Grif asks.

            “Uh. I guess. If she was always crazy,” Wash says doubtfully. He shakes his head, remembering the girl’s insistence that he was a cop and her infuriating inability to leave him alone. He _really_ hopes she’s not here anymore.

            “Eh. More or less. Come on!” Grif is uncharacteristically bouncing. He leads the way into the base, looking around as if he expects his long-missed sister to jump out of the walls at any moment. Wash honestly wouldn’t put it past her.

            “I wouldn’t mind looking around,” Simmons says timidly, following his teammate into the base.

            Wash looks at Tucker.

            “Fine, let’s get this over with,” Tucker says, heaving a sigh.

            The two of them follow Grif and Simmons into the base. Caboose is waiting for them at the end of the hallway.

            “Thank you for joining us. Here you see the room where Admiral Cinnamon Bun bought our flag when I was guarding it. And to your left is my list of important things!” he says.

            “I just need to see where you guys kept your spare gear—“ Wash begins, but Caboose cuts him off with a loud _shh_ noise.

            “Please hold all the questions until the end, please,” the Blue soldier says stiffly.

            Wash looks at Tucker who shrugs.

            “This was your dumb idea,” Tucker mutters.

            Caboose leads them through the garage (“This was supposed to be Sheila’s room but she didn’t fit in the door because _someone_ didn’t make it big enough”), the mess hall (“Here is the kitchen, where we keep the orange juice and the cookies”), and the control room (“I’m not supposed to touch anything in this room. And I definitely probably never did that anyway.”), before finally reaching the barracks. There are enough bunks for twelve soldiers fixed into the walls. Each bunk is surrounded by storage compartments for any spare gear and what few personal belongings each soldier brought with him or her.

            Caboose runs and jumps onto the bunk in the back right corner.

            “This one is mine. Church was supposed to sleep on the top bunk because I’m a nice best friend, but he always slept over there,” he says, pointing to the front left corner. “I think he was shy.”

            Grif  is sadly touching the various posters of attractive singers and what looks like magazine cut-outs taped all over one of the bunks near the door—the only real evidence Wash has seen of the crazy teenager who’d thought he was a cop in the base.

            Unless you counted the trashed kitchen and common area. But Wash doesn’t have enough faith in the cleaning abilities of Church, Tucker, and Caboose to really count that as evidence.

            “Where did Florida sleep?” Wash asks, ignoring Caboose as he begins exploring the compartments around his bed. He only winces slightly when Caboose shouts that his  personal stash of cookies are still there, and when Grif asks if he can have some, perking up substantially.

            “That one.” Tucker points to the top bunk on the right wall. Wash nods—it makes sense. The bunk has a good view of the door and all the other bunks in the room. He vaults up to the bunk. All of the storage compartments are locked. Wash isn’t as skilled as picking locks as York was, but he’s not half bad. York and Delta both had shown him a few tricks—some that York had resented (“D! You never told me that!” “I assumed a skilled entry specialist such as yourself would know such a simple shortcut.” “Shut up…”). He has the storage compartments open in a matter of minutes.

            Tucker sits on a bunk across the room and watches as Wash filters through Florida’s old fatigues, shirts, and a few comic books. He finds a data-pad. There could be something there, but he doubts it.

            “Simmons, take a look at this. See if you can find anything useful,” Wash says.

            “Uh, okay,” Simmons says, taking the offered data-pad and begins tapping at it.

            Wash returns to his exploration of his deceased comrade’s things. A small compartment near the head of the bunk reveals a small portion of Florida’s collection of knives in various sizes. These earn a “Woah, cool!”from Grif as Wash lays each one out carefully. He can tell by the state of them that these had been some of Florida’s favorites.

            Wash doesn’t tell the Sim soldiers about the things Florida could do with those knives. . Nor does he offer any of the stories that he knows behind the nicks in some of the blades or the wear in the handles.

            After locating some standard training manuals, a UNSC mug stained by many mornings worth of  coffee, and a book titled “1,001 More of the Very Best Knock Knock Jokes” with a broken spine and a scrawled note from “Reg” on the inside, Wash sits back against the empty compartments in puzzled defeat.

            “Anything?” he asks Simmons.

            “Nah, just a bunch of really organized daily regimens and chore lists. It looks like this guy was a great leader,” Simmons replies wistfully. “Oh, there are some notes in here about Church and Tucker.”

            “What? What kind of notes?” Tucker asks, sitting up from where he was sulkily slumped.

            “Mostly training notes and stuff. You guys were pretty awful at…well…everything,” Simmons says. Wash can hear the grin in his voice.

            “Shut up, let me see!” Tucker tries to grab the data-pad from Simmons’s hands, but the maroon-armored soldier holds it out of his reach. Tucker stops.

            “Really?” he says flatly. He catches Simmons’s arm and easily pulls it down, taking the data-pad from him without any more resistance than a pointed whimper.  

            “Wow, fine,” Simmons says finally. Grif, having wheedled several cookies from Caboose, laughs with his mouth full.

            “Wuss,” he calls.

            Tucker scans through his file quickly.

            “Wow, depressing,” he says. He doesn’t admit that the last note - _Tucker shows eagerness to learn new weaponry! Order sniper from Command tomorrow._ Almost chokes him  up a bit. Almost. He tosses the data-pad back to Simmons nonchalantly (who drops it much less nonchalantly) and returns to his post across from Wash. He cocks his head to one side.

            “Hey, what’s that?” he asks, pointing to the open compartment next to the head of the bunk.

            “What’s what?” Wash asks, looking around the wall and into the compartment.

            “That button looking thing,” Tucker says, waving his hand to emphasize what he’s pointing at. Wash sees it. A small panel of metal slightly more raised than the rest of the wall of the compartment.

            “It _is_ a button,” he confirms. Should he push it? Caboose’s head snaps up at the word “button.”

            “Ooh, ooh, can I do it?” he asks.

            “All right, fine. Everyone keep your eyes open…I have no idea what’s going to happen,” Wash says.

            Caboose pushes the button, narrating the action with a cheerful “Beep!” There is a quiet hiss as a door opens, then the weighted _thud_ of something heavy hitting the bunk behind Wash—he can feel the air from the object as it falls past him.

            Caboose screams and scrambles backward several steps, almost falling on top of Tucker.

            “Oh my god it’s a dead person!” he cries. “Not my fault!”

            “Holy shit!” Simmons shouts, backing up as well.

            “Calm down, guys! It’s not a body,” Wash says, a touch of excitement making his fingertips tingle. Finally, something’s going right.

            “Is _that_ his Freelancer armor?” Tucker asks in disbelief. “Man, what a rip-off. That armor is way cooler than mine. I want to trade.”

            “No,” Wash say faintly, not turning around or really paying much attention. “You’re not getting Freelancer armor.”

            The full set of Florida’s armor is laid out on the bed, light reflecting off of its deep blue surface brilliantly. It’s clean and perfect, just as Wash remembers. Florida had always been picky about the little details—his gear was always in pristine condition (except for some of his better knives which were “aged to prove their value,” as he’d said) and polished regularly. He’d always been at least a little dismayed at Maine’s battle-scarred, scuffed up armor. It was a constant argument between the two of them. On more than one occasion, Florida had offered to clean and repair Main’s armor. The larger Freelancer had always declined, stating simply that he liked it that way. The only thing Florida could get Maine to keep up with was his golden domed helmet, always polished to a brilliant shine.

            Wash takes his own helmet off and puts Florida’s on, trying not to think too much about what he’s doing. The inside of the helmet mostly smells musty like old storage, but still has a faint scent of the woody cologne Florida liked to wear. He takes a deep breath and activates the HUD. He waits impatiently for the system checks to load, ignoring its warnings about the mis-matched armor, incorrect vitals, and the empty AI slot. Wash scrolls through outdated reports and information panels until he gets to the Mission Parameters screen. A small voice that is not quite F.I.L.I.S. says “Welcome, Agent Florida. Please enter your secure password.”

            Wash sighs. He didn’t know Florida well enough to begin to think of what his password would have been. He knew that Florida was friendly to everyone on the Mother of Invention with a strange sense of humor and a neat-freak tendency. He’d mostly hung around Wyoming and some of the older Freelancers that Wash hadn’t ever really known. It was said that he’d never spoken during missions, but completed his objectives with a silent, calculating attitude. His on the field and off the field attitudes were like night and day. That’d always confused Wash (who had been pretty much the same person in every setting) back in the day. None of that information was enough to really go off.

            Wash takes off the helmet and, after a moment’s consideration, holds it out to Simmons.

            “What do you want me to do with it?” Simmons squeaks, clearly uncomfortable with handling a dead man’s armor. He makes no move to take the offered helmet…in fact, he sort of leans away from it. Wash has to try not to roll his eyes.

            “I’m pretty sure the information we want is there…it just locked. Password protected. I need you to get past that and get the information out for us. Can you do it?” Wash asks.

            Simmons hesitates, but finally reaches out for the helmet. He examines it carefully, then stoops to pick up the data-pad from where it sits at his feet. He takes both items over to an unused bunk and takes off his own helmet. He looks at them with his one blue eye, his cyborg eye fixed and probably already running scans on the helmet.

            “Yeah, I can do it. But I’m going to need some time,” he says. “And some _quiet_.” This is directed toward Grif as much as it’s a blanket statement.

            As silence slowly fills with whirrs and blips, Wash takes a deep breath. Soon. He’ll get clues soon.

            He picks up the book of jokes and slips back into memory, letting Simmons work.

            Soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I need to check my outline again, but if I remember correctly, Simmons's backstory is up next, so stay tuned!! :3


	7. Genius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FINALLY FINISHED IT! Holy smokes! 
> 
> I had such a hard time with this chapter...I have a really hard time getting into Simmons's head. 
> 
> A special shoutout to everyone on Tumblr who reblogged, replied, or sent asks with Simmons headcanons for me. I responded to a few of them, but all of them really helped. 
> 
> Disclaimer: It turns out there is something I know less about than racing cars, and that's hacking into databases. So that's a thing.

            Richard Simmons watches the slender, dark hand snake its way into the air with dread. The hand waves around for a moment, gun metal grey nail polish shimmering under the fluorescent lights like a beacon before the quiet drone of their programming instructor stops and the squishy trudge of sole-enforced shoes pads toward the hand. It’s all Richard can do not to groan as the owner of the hand—a wide-eyed girl with short black hair—lets out her fifth “But sir, I don’t understand!” of the class. He feels marginally better as his instructor heaves a long-suffering sigh in time with the rest of the class.

            “All right, Tay. What do you not understand this time?”

            As the girl begins to articulate her problem, Richard zones out. He begins doodling ones and zeroes across his notes. Not that he’s thinking about them. Instead, he’s thinking about his calculus test next hour, and his history quiz after that. He is lost to the universe until a knobbly old hand slides into his field of vision and picks up his page of doodles. Richard jumps and looks guiltily up at his instructor.

            “Come retrieve this after class.” The older man is frowning, but his eyes are sparkling with an amused light.

            Richard hangs his head and tries to ignore the burning that is his classmates’ eyes boring holes in him.

            Please stop looking at me, he wills silently at them. One by one, they look away and he raises his burning face to the lecture, which has long since continued. It takes him a few moments to figure out where they are in the program. He’d finished the project they’re working on last week. But he diligently focuses on the holo-screen for the remainder of the class—he can’t help it. Maybe, just maybe, his extra vigor in the last ten minutes will spare him from the rebuke he’s sure to earn for spacing out mid-lecture.

            After the bell rings, Richard makes his way up to the front of the room. His instructor is bent over something at his desk. Maybe Richard can just slip past him without--

            “Ah, Richard,” the instructor looks up and smiles. Dr. Halfast is a tall, thin man who had spent a long career writing programs for the settlements around the galaxies. Rumor had it that his last station had been on Harvest. The time abroad didn’t make him haughty or bitter. Somehow, the man has managed to retain his hopeful energy.

            “Yes sir?” Richard says, stomach sinking.

            “You don’t seem to be focused on the lectures,” Dr. Halfast says. The twinkle is back in his eyes. Richard looks down but doesn’t answer. His ears start to burn.

            “Are you confused by the material?” Dr. Halfast asks. Richard’ head snaps up.

            “No, sir! I just—“

            “You’re too quick for this class, Richard.” It isn’t a question. But that doesn’t make answering any easier. Richard frowns.

            “Sir?”

            “How is it that you manage to turn your projects in the moment the assignment goes live on the due date?”

            Richard stammers for an explanation.

            “Well, I mean, I just budget my time wisely and—“

            “Richard. When did you complete this unit’s project?”

            Dr. Halfast’s tone is serious but not angry. There is still a hint of a smile dancing around his eyes.

            “Last Tuesday,” Richard admits.

            Dr. Halfast smiles in earnest.

            “You have a talent. I’ll be looking forward to your test results,” he says.

            Richard tries to smile back but fails. Test results. The University Placement Pre-Exam…the test that will tell him where he will be sent after this last year finishes. If he gets to go anywhere at all. The knot that he’d been trying to ignore all day clenches.

            _Tomorrow_ , something in his brain whispers. Something not nice.

            “Thank you, sir. Um, can I go now?” he asks.

            “Yes. Oh, wait. I translated your—er—critique of Tay’s work. She’s quite bright—as is everyone who tests into this academy. She is simply struggling with a few of the more complex functions we’re studying in this class. I would like it if you offered her a little bit of assistance for the remainder of the semester,” Dr. Halfast says.

            Richard makes a face before he can stop himself, but Dr. Halfast continues.

            “On Tuesdays. During your afternoon free period—you share the same one, I believe?” This is a punishment, not a suggestion. Richard reads between the lines and mumbles something in the respectful affirmative.

“And in the future, please refrain from calling your classmates useless bitches—no matter what language you write it in.”

            Richard takes the page of binary hatred from his instructor. The burning blush has spread from his face down to his chest. He’s fairly certain that he’s mostly maroon under his grey and white uniform.

            “Y-yes sir,” he stammers. His instructor’s amused chuckles follow him out the door.

 

            Back in his dormitory, Richard stares at the calendar on the wall. Half of it has been covered carelessly with a list of Christmas gifts he doesn’t really want to spend his credits on for his assorted family members and respected teachers and elders. He sighs and takes the list down to reveal the red circle around the date—December 15th—tomorrow. In his shaky sprawl, the words “Exam Day” squeeze into the circle. He really does not want to think about this.

            On cue, his room’s com unit begins beeping. The panel on the wall indicates that it’s his father.

            Richard _really_ doesn’t want to think about this.

            “Hey Dad, what’s up?” Richard asks as cheerfully as he can.

            “How did your test go?” No hello, no introduction or small talk about the family. Not even a little bit of sentiment for the son who had been away for almost five months. Richard hasn’t even been invited home for Christmas yet. He knows better than to expect any of these things but…

            “I didn’t answer a single question,” Richard says, loading the statement with flippancy and vinegar. The line is only silent for a faction of a second before he hurriedly adds “Because the test is tomorrow, haha.” The vinegar becomes sugar, making his voice squeak nervously.

            The pause lengthens. The silence pours enough disappointment into the room that not a single syllable needs to be added for emphasis. Richard finds himself hanging his head. He sighs.

            “I’m sorry,” he says finally, voice small. “It was a stupid joke.”

            “I’ll leave you to your studies and check in tomorrow.”

            The line goes dead without a comforting word, a good luck, or even a farewell.

            “Thanks, Dad. Your encouragement means so much to me the night before the biggest test of my life. How’s mom? Great.” Richard says to no one. “Great.”

 

            Richard’s night is equally spent between staring at his ceiling feeling ill and restlessly dreaming about the next day. His nightmares range between showing up to the exam stark naked to failing and having his father execute him point-blank to having his exam come to life and try to devour him. He’s relieved when his alarm wakes him from a particularly stressful dream in which he was trying to catch a stylus as it tried to run from him.

            The ill feeling doesn’t leave as Richard gets ready for his classes. A weight eerily similar to that of his textbooks settles in his chest, reminding him of every moment he chose not to prepare for today. His eyes burn, no matter how much he rubs at them. Someone has made a desert in his eye sockets.

            He’s going to fail.

            Richard foregoes breakfast in favor of sitting on the terrace and breathing deeply, attempting to keep yesterday’s food on the inside where it belongs.

            There is no way he’s passing this exam.

            The bell rings and Richard stands. The air around him pulls him back like a current. Each step feels slower, his legs impossible to lift. As his body slows and the hallway stretches out before him, his breath quickens. Richard is taking in air like there’s not enough left. How are his lungs not exploding right now? His knees shake, his palms are dripping. Nothing in his body seems to be working right. Yet somehow, the door to the testing room approaches.

            _The Testing Room_. Psh. That sounds so pretentious. Richard laughs at the thought, though the sound is high and inhuman. A pair of girls move away from him, frowning at him. He’s got to stop expressing himself out loud. If he could explain the joke to them, he would. Because come on. The Testing Room. A whole room that’s only used maybe twice a year. A room specifically set aside and for what? To let students know that this is serious business? To remind them that they are about to undertake something so important, it cannot be completed in the comfort of their normal desks? The whole thing, Richard thinks, is just a scare tactic meant to put undue pressure on a meaningless task.

            There is a five minute time slot allotted for students to get to The Testing Room. Richard can make it there in about two, which gives him three minutes to deposit yesterday’s lunch and dinner into a nearby trashcan. Well, at least that’s out of the way.

            Across the hall, Richard sees he’s not alone. More than one student has their head in a trashcan. Others are pale and shaking. A few have wet cheeks and red eyes.

            Someone should really assess whether exams like this are good for students’ health.

            The double doors are open. Rows of stern grey cubicles are guarded by stern grey instructors. Each cubicle contains a personal light that cannot be turned off or adjusted, a stylus that is (thankfully) chained to the desk, and a built in datapad. The chairs are hard, metal chairs with hard right corners.

            “Your name?” A woman with white hair in a tight bun squints at Richard. Her blue eyes narrow as she takes him in. _I know you just vomited over this exam, you weakling_ , her thin, twitching lips tell him.

            “Richard Simmons,” Richard says hoarsely. The woman looks down at the datapad in her hands, clicks her tongue, and pulls Richard to the left.

            Like clockwork, the other attending instructors maneuver Richard from one to the next, quietly repeating his name like the perfect game of Telephone. Finally, Richard is sat down in one of the metal chairs at a cubicle with his name tacked onto the side in a plain, no-nonsense san-serif font printed onto plain, crisp paper.

            For the remaining few minutes, Richard just sits and breathes until a deep bass voice booms out across the cubicles, demanding silence in the already silent room. Richard jumps hard enough that he nearly slides off of his chair and starts to peer around the wall of his cubicle when he realizes the datapad on his desk has activated. A broad-shouldered man in a military dress uniform stands at a stiff attention, his dark eyes staring into the camera like precision sights.

            “I am the administrator of this assessment,” the man announces. “Your scores today do not only dictate where you will spend your future, but they reflect the standards of this institution. It is your responsibility to accurately demonstrate the result of the teaching that takes place here.”

            The administrator takes a few moments to let that sink in. Richard is glad he already threw up.

            “Your assessment will begin in thirty seconds. Cheating will not be tolerated. Your work will be monitored. You have two hours. Do your best. And finally, have fun.”

            Richard tries not to snort as a buzzer sounds. The administrator’s figure disappears from the datapad and the first question appears. Richard takes a deep breath.

           

            Two hours pass at an unfathomable speed. Literally. Richard has trouble looking back and fathoming the two hours he spent in that cold, sterile room. He remembers spending years and years in there, but now that it’s over, it only took seconds. Richard’s knees shake as if he’s just run a race. He meanders down the hallway with the other students—he dimly realizes they look like a horde of zombies shambling toward the last few human survivors. Would anyone laugh if he started murmuring “braaaains”? Probably not. No one will ever laugh again.

            “Richard! Good to see you survived!” A cheerful voice breaks through the thick monotony of the crowd. Richard looks over to see Dr. Halfast smiling from the doorway of his office. Richard breaks from the horde and makes his way to his instructor.

            “Well? How did you do?” Dr. Halfast asks.

            This isn’t a question Richard wants to consider.

            “We won’t get the results until Monday,” he says.

            “All right, how do you _think_ you did?” Dr. Halfast’s grin widens expectantly.

            Richard opens his mouth to respond, but stops. What happened during the test? It’s like he blacked out. He can’t think of a single question or response. He did actually _take_ the exam…right?

            “Richard?” Dr. Halfast’s grin has dissipated into a look of concern, his white eyebrows knit together over his thin-rimmed glasses.

            “I-I don’t know, sir,” Richard says.

            He looks up, the first thread of fear starting its wicked web in the pit of his stomach. But Dr. Halfast smiles reassuringly.

            “I’m sure you did just fine,” he says. He places a hand on Richard’s shoulder. “Now, when those scores come back, I’ll tack on a recommendation for the University of Engineering—not that you’ll need it, of course.”

            Richard’s knees buckle slightly. He looks up at his instructor with wide eyes.

            “Sir?”

            “You have potential, Richard. With the right opportunities, you could go very far. Why, you might be the next Dr. Halsey!”

            Richard swallows hard.

            “Thank you, sir,” he says automatically.

            He thinks Dr. Halfast releases him. Maybe there’s more conversation. But Richard’s head is spinning. Who is Dr. Halsey? What has this guy accomplished that Richard is going to have to live up to now? More importantly, all of this depends on that exam....an exam Richard can’t even remember. What’s he going to do when the scores come back and prove that he did actually fail completely? What’s he going to tell everyone? What will happen to Dr. Halfast and his recommendation?

           

            There are no more classes for the day. At the conclusion of the exam, the administrator had announced that the remainder of the day was blocked out for “relaxation”. Again, the official had encouraged the students to “have fun” in a tone of voice that made “fun” into a military order.

            There are parties, of course. So many parties—students sneak in alcohol and other chemical treats to help them forget about the exam experience. The dormitories are vibrating with the deep bass of various stereos. Even the most studious are letting loose today.

 

            Richard paces his room. His walls are shaking with the beat of various songs. He doesn’t really notice that much. He doesn’t want to forget the exam—he needs to know. His father will call in a few hours to ask—Richard needs an answer.

            For the fifth time, Richard sits down at his desk, his fingers hovering over his keyboard.

            “ _Fuck it_ ,” he says out loud.

            He has to know.

            It’s not that hard to get into the school’s system. Even military-funded private schools like this one aren’t that great at security. In layman’s terms, getting into the system was as easy as putting on a fake mustache, a bowler hat, a trench coat, and a fake accent and knocking on the front door. It only takes Richard about five minutes to get in.

            Richard locates his records easily. He doesn’t find anything he doesn’t already know. His grades are nearly perfect. There is a flag next to his tech courses. The notation tells him he’s being considered for a recommendation. Dr. Halfast’s recommendation. Another flag tells him that his father is a generous patron of the academy in addition to being an extremely high ranked medical officer. Richard rolls his eyes—again, nothing he didn’t already know. Where are the scores from the exam?

            Richard sits back in his chair.

            “Where is it?” he asks no one in particular.

            He can find this. What does he know?

  1.       This exam is administered in a specific location with a specific set of computers—they probably all connect to a common source.
  2.       The exam was administered by a military officer
  3.       Furthermore, the exam is not administered _by_ the academy, but for the assessment of the academy itself, and for the placement of students into future positions within the UNSC
  4.        Logically, the exam results must be somewhere in the UNSC database, not the school’s database.
  5.       This is going to suck.



Richard stretches his long, thin fingers out over the keyboard and takes a deep breath. Break into the UNSC database? Sure. That’s going to be all kinds of low-stress and relaxing. For just a moment, Richard hesitates. Should he really do this? Is it worth it? He pictures Dr. Halfast’s expectant face. He thinks of his father’s immediate demand the night before.

Yeah. He has to know.  If one more person asks him how the exam went, he’ll explode, probably.

 

The UNSC database, Richard realizes some time later, is way bigger than he thought. Part of him laughs at himself. What did he think? That it would just be a neat little hard drive somewhere? He isn’t quite ready for the web of folders and drives that sprawls out before him when he finally makes it into the system after he finally manages to convince it that he has a permissions level that probably doesn’t even exist.

“Okay, so…uhhhh….where do I start?” Richard asks no one in particular.

He browses the directories for anything remotely academic. However, a file named “Halsey” catches his eye. That was the name of the person Dr. Halfast had mentioned. Richard clicks into the file.

“Hello! How can I help you?” A friendly female voice asks.

“Shit!” Richard shouts. He pushes backward so hard his chair goes tumbling backward with him in it.

“Request not recognized,” the female voice says.

Richard climbs back up to look into his screen. Amid the files, a window not unlike a vid-chat window hosts the figure of a glowing blue woman.

“A smart AI?” Richard says out loud. He had read that smart AI were being integrated into various military programs but he had never had access to one before.

“Almost. I am a prototype for the Cortana program. You have a clearance level of—“ the blue woman flickers as Richard’s falsified information flows through her. She frowns slightly, but continues on. “First Supreme Overlord.” She flickers again as the information almost doesn’t match up. “You have unlimited access. Would you like to review data about the Cortana program?”

Richard lets out a nervous giggle upon hearing his careless “title” said aloud. He is so dead if anyone catches wind of this. He should log off right now and walk away. But...

“Yes, please,” he says.

            “Where would you like to begin?” the program asks.

            Richard, fascinated, dives into a world of programming that has only thus far been mentioned in passing. Not that he can’t understand why—this stuff is way too complex for even the Academy students to figure out. AI _can’t_ be made—not real, smart AI. Every AI has to come from an existing neurological map. It’s not just creating a program—it’s creating life itself. The science involved requires a hefty knowledge of programming, electronics, neurobiology, and psychology. Richard doesn’t know enough to keep up, but he does know enough to know he’s stumbled onto the most interesting scientific development he’s ever seen.

           

            “Would you like to view related projects?” Sim-Cortana (as Richard has started thinking of her) asks some time later. Richard, having exhausted everything that he can follow (and a few things that he couldn’t figure out no matter how many different ways the personality sim explained it), considers. Dinner will be open in the dormitory’s cafeteria soon. Maybe just a little peek.

            “Yeah, sure,” he says out loud. File folders begin appearing on his screen.

            He should be more concerned about whether or not he’s going to get caught.

            He should be, but he’s not. He browses through the files on the screen. Most of them look boring—more lists of data and experiments. He avoids looking too closely at ONI and the SPARTAN program—he knows enough from listening in on his father’s conference calls that he doesn’t want to know more than he has to about SPARTANs. He definitely doesn’t want to know about that program’s history unless he has to. Richard skips over plans for jeeps and tanks and weapons.

            There is a whole list of projects notated “In Progress.” Project Kronos, Project Star, Project whatever. Richard selects one at random. Project Freelancer. Could be interesting, he guesses.

            “Oh—“ Sim-Cortana’s voice is cut short. A new female voice takes her place.

            “I’m sorry. You are not allowed to access this drive.” The voice says, not sounding sorry in the slightest.

            “Program, check access level,” Richard says. He should have access to all of UNSC’s files…what’s going on?

            “Access level – Unlimited. I’m sorry. You are not allowed to access this device.” The voice says, not even pausing. Richard sits back and pyramids his fingers—his typical “evil genius” pose. Dinner is forgotten. What kind of access is _above_ unlimited? It’s on now. He’s going to figure this out.

            Leaving his desktop, Richard pulls out his datapad to do a little bit of research. Thirty minutes later, he sets to work, fingers flying across the keys. A crooked grin spreads across his face as he battles with the AI that continues denying his access.

            Finally, the voice quiets and folders deal themselves out like cards across the screen.

            “Ha!” Richard shouts, punching the air. But his celebration is premature. Before he can enjoy his treasure trove of information, the folders dive back into the “Project Freelancer” drive icon.

            “What?” Richard sits up, his face close to the screen.

            “Hey, asshole!” A new voice—this one male shouts, somehow cranking up the volume on his computer.

            “ _What?_ ” Richard squeaks. “Me?”

            “Yeah, you, dumbass. Who else? What the hell do you think you’re doing? What’d you do to FILISS?”

            “To—to who?” Richard’s heart is in his throat. He’s been caught. Whoever this guy is is going to come down and arrest him—what’s the penalty for breaking in to the UNSC servers? Prison? Court marshalling? Execution?

            “The program who’s supposed to be looking after this shit so I don’t have to. You’re in big trouble.”

            Richard is nearly hyperventilating. He can’t speak. The guy doesn’t really seem to care.

            “Let’s see where you are, Cockbite.” A blue light shines out and sweeps its way across the room.

            “Your apartment is a piece of shit, dude,” the voice comments. “Wait….wait a second…I know this. This is a dormitory—are you a _student?_ And you got in _here?_ ”

            “Y-yes?” Richard tries. The voice doesn’t sound as angry…it actually sounds more impressed.

            “Fuck, dude. What’s your name?”

            “Uhh…” Lie—Richard has to lie. If this hack gets back to him, he’s dead. He spits out syllables, searching for a believable name that isn’t his.

            “Oh my god, fine. Simmons, huh?”  Richard’s mouth gapes slightly. That’s it. He’s dead. The military isn’t even going to get a chance to murder him; his father’s going to get it done first. This is pretty much family treason. Punishable by stripping of name and death. Future Simmonses will never know that Richard existed. That’s how much his father is going to obliterate him.

            “You’re a pretty smart kid—some of these projects are pretty good. Why do your test scores suck so bad? Holy crap, do you pay a five year old to do these for you?” The voice is laughing as Richard’s world collapses in around him. Richard just continues to stare as his records appear on the screen. A part of his brain registers the exam score he’d been looking for. The suggestion – _ENLIST_ is written next to it in red. Enlist. He’s failed the standard—this is as high as his education goes. The universe sucks him deeper into the dark hole of anxiety he was already floating in.

            “Hello? Helloooo….what’s your problem?” The voice says, butting into Richard’s thought process.

            “Huh? Oh, uh. Hey, I’m sorry for bugging you. I’ll just log off, okay? I haven’t stolen anything so I mean, um,” Richard’s tongue ties itself up.

            “Nah, it’s cool. I mean, I didn’t really have anything better to do. They’ve taken all my processes away in preparation for this big secretive project or whatever. I don’t even know what they’re planning now,” the voice says.

            “Your processes?” A lightbulb pings on somewhere in Richard’s memory.

            “Yeah. You know. My jobs. The stuff I do as an AI. I’m Alpha, by the way. I’m not really supposed to talk to anyone but what the hell. I mean, I could just say you hacked me, right?” The program laughs.

            “Wait, are _you_ an actual smart AI?” Richard asks.

            “Yeah. Oh, what, did you just figure that out? Come on, you’re supposed to be smart or whatever,” Alpha says.

            “Sorry, I’ve never met a smart AI before,” Richard says. “is FILLIS a smart AI, too?”

            “Nah, she’s a dumb AI. She’s pretty cool though. Way nicer than most of the women I meet,” Alpha says. Richard gets the idea that if a computer program could roll its eyes, Alpha would be doing so.

            “Do you meet a lot of women as an AI?” Richard muses.

            “Hey, shut up. Do you meet a lot of women being a nerd?” Alpha fires back.

            “Hey—“ Richard starts to reply before his door lets out a complaining beep, then slides open. Tay tumbles into his room, her spiky hair mussed slightly. She lays on the floor and waves a small datapad around.

            “Fuckin’ got it! I hacked your door, Dick!” she calls out. “See? ‘m not that stupid.”

            “Okay, I stand corrected,” Alpha says, volume low. Richard snorts and gets up to inspect the apparently drunk girl on his floor.

            “What are you doing in here, Tay?” he asks, helping her up. She flops like a wet towel in his arms, heavy and hard to move. “You should go back to your room and go to sleep.”

            “I’m fine, Dick. Look, look, okay.” Tay is squinting at him, her gold eyes fighting to focus. In spite of himself, Richard starts turning red.

            “You’re the smartest guy ever, okay? Ever.” She slurs, putting her hand on his face. It’s not graceful or romantic—actually, it’s kind of warm and sweaty and almost a slap, to be honest. But Richard swallows hard.

            “Um,” he chokes out.

            “Smooth, dumbass,” he hears Alpha intone quietly. _Not Helping_.

            “No you are! And I’m not the smartest person ever so you have to fix me.” Tay throws herself forward so she’s draped across Richard. Surely, she has to know. Surely.

            “Tay, look, I don’t—“ Richard stammers.

            “I will do…” Tay tries again to find Richard’s eyes. She’s also trying to caress his face again—though she’s mostly just smashing her hand against his nose. “…anything you want. Anything at all, okay? Just make sure I don’t fuck up.”

            “Wow, uh, maybe I should go…” Alpha says. Richard didn’t realize a computer program could sounds so sarcastic. Who was this guy mapped from, anyway? When he’d been reading the files, Richard had assumed only insanely smart people would be used for this sort of thing.  

            “Ohhh my god, do you already have someone in here? A _boy_ someone?” Tay cranes around, looking for the voice. “If it is, I’m gonna win a ton of bets. Who is it?”

            Richard has to clamp on to Tay’s arm so she doesn’t fall over as she swivels around him, scanning the darkened corners of the room for the source of the male voice. Her eyes are wide as she tries to look under the desk and under the bed.

            “Come out come out Dick’s boyfriend!” she calls.

            “How drunk are you?” Richard asks. “And you…didn’t you say you’re not supposed to talk to anyone?” Alpha is laughing hard enough that if he had a face, tears would be running down it.

            “That chick is wasted. She’s not going to remember any of this anyway!” Alpha points out. “Hey, drunk girl. What’s up?”

            Tay finally connects the voice with the computer terminal. She points at Richard, her glittering nail touching his cheek.

            “Your boyfriend is an _internet_ boyfriend? This is the best. Everyone’s gonna find out and it’s gonna be awesome,” she slurs proudly.

            “Tay come on. Stop,” Richard pleads, leaning his face out of her nail’s way as her hand drifts closer to his eye.

            “I’m not leaving until I get what I want,” Tay insists. “Help me or I’ll tell everyone about your internet boyfriend. Then everyone will know that you’re a huge gay nerd.”

            “Yeah, I don’t think that’s a secret,” Alpha guesses.

            “Shut _up_ ,” Richard hisses. “Look, I’ll help you, okay? Just get out of my room and don’t tell anyone about this.”

            Tay’s face lights up. She releases Richard and sways on her feet.

            “Score,” she says.

            “Now—“ Richard begins, but Tay topples over.

            “I gotta hand it to you. I’ve never seen someone passed out looking so satisfied,” Alpha comments.

            “Shut—wait, how can you _see_ anything?” Richard asks, looking down at Tay. How’s he going to move her? She can’t stay here…

            “What, you thought they didn’t have cameras in all the rooms?” Alpha laughs. “Yeah right. They’re just not monitored. But don’t worry. I’ll get rid of all the footage of you breaking into our systems.”

            “Uhh…thanks,” Richard says faintly. That thought honestly had not occurred to him until right this second. Though now that Alpha has pointed it out, it seems really obvious.

            “No problem. Sorry—all the other stuff you did when you thought you were alone is staying though,” Alpha says slyly.

Richard tries not to think of that.

“Why are you helping me?” he asks instead. “What happened to “what do you think you’re doing, asshole?” and stuff?”

            “Come on, you’re just a kid. I won’t rat you out. And I was bored. This is the most fun I’ve had in a while. Which says something…Created to run complex missions for elite military units and reduced to hanging around in cyber space with a nerdy teenager. God, now I’m kinda depressed,” Alpha remarks.

            “Well, uh, thanks. I think I should probably log off, though,” Richard says. “I think my luck’s running out.”

            “Yeah, that’s cool. I should probably get back to…whatever….yeah.” Alpha sounds a little disappointed.

            “Maybe I’ll come talk to you again sometime?” Richard offers.

            “Maybe,” Alpha says. “Hey, I’ll go ahead and put everything back that you messed up. Don’t want you to get caught or anything.”

            “Thanks,” Richard says again. “I thought I was being careful.”

            “Yeah, well, you’ve still got a lot to learn, kid,” Alpha says. “But keep going or something. I dunno, I suck at pep talks. Later, Simmons.”

            “Bye,” Richard says. The screen blacks out, flickers a few times, then reappears showing his desktop. Everything is quiet. Richard stands in the middle of his room in the glow of his desktop. The silence is broken only by Tay’s not-quite snore.

            Now what?

            The com unit beeps at him. Richard sees his father’s name but his brain processes the word _ENLIST_ in red letters. He isn’t ready for this conversation. But he answers the call—what choice does he have?

            “So.” His father’s voice is full of predetermined disappointment.

            “I won’t find out the results until next week,” Richard says.

            “You should be able to give a report on your performance,” his father says.

            “I—“ _failed, failed, failed_. The word pounds against his head, but he can’t say it. 

            “Well?” He knows. Richard doesn’t know how, but his father knows. Richard takes a deep breath.

            “I expect I’ll have a strong career with the UNSC. I know at least one instructor is willing to give me a recommendation. I have a future.” Richard hates how much it sounds like he’s pleading.

            “I expected more, Richard.”

            The line goes dead.

           

            The day the test scores are released is the first day Richard’s instructors begin looking at him with pity. Eventually, they stop looking at him at all. Even Dr. Halfast pulls back. He only smiles with a sort of strange regret in his eyes.

            Richard falls into a routine of quietly doing his own work, then walking Tay through hers. She tells everyone she’s tutoring him. Every session they have together, he thinks of telling her he’s done, but he never does.

 

            Richard is not invited home for Christmas.

           

            In March, the Academy holds an interviewing day for the students’ future programs to come and meet them. Formally, this is considered the final selection process, though very few people have ever been rejected at this point.

            Richard stands with the others who were assigned to enlist. Today he’ll be selected for whichever branch of the military he’ll end up joining and probably dying for. He wonders if he’ll get a choice. If he does, he doesn’t really know what he’ll do. He watches everyone whose last name happens to be closer to the front of the alphabet meander up to front to be ushered into one of the rooms set aside for interviews. Most of them come out with a duffle bag in tan, green, grey, or blue and a relieved (or at least resolved) expression on their face.

            “Simmons, Richard!” His name is called and he’s pulled into a small office. To his surprise, one man is standing behind the desk rather than the panel of officers everyone else had talked about. The man smiles. Richard isn’t sure if he likes the smile or not. 

            “Good morning, Richard. How are you today?” the man asks in a quiet, unsettling voice.

            “Uh, okay, I guess. Aren’t there supposed to be more people here?” Richard asks. He tries meeting the man’s eyes. Bad decision. Richard quickly drops his eyes to the desk that separates him from the man.

            “You are not here for a typical interview, Richard. You have been given a very…special recommendation for our program,” the man says.

            “I was?” Richard’s head snaps up. “But I thought…” He catches himself and stops. Never bring up failure in an interview.

            The man fixes Richard with an x-ray stare.

            “You thought?” he prompts.

            Richard laughs nervously.

            “I didn’t think I would still get the recommendation, that’s all,” he admits.

            “So you knew that there was a possibility that this recommendation would occur?” The man asks. There is no surprise in his voice.

            “I-I mean, we had talked about it before, y’know, the exam,” Richard says, fidgeting excitedly. Maybe he isn’t a complete failure after all.

            A flicker of some emotion—suspicion? Surprise? Interest?

            “How many times have you spoken in the past?” the man asks.

            “Uhh. Every Tuesday and Thursday? Dr. Halfast is one of my main instructors,” Richard says. The man’s expression flattens back into the unsettlingly serene smile.

            “Dr. Halfast. Of course.” The man takes a moment to log something on a datapad he’s holding. Richard wants to ask him what that means but doesn’t. He gets the feeling that the two of them are having different conversations.  

            “Your test scores do…complicate matters slightly,” the man says. “If you accept our offer, you will have to live up to your recommendation before we can promote you to the level your benefactor claims you can handle. You will start at the bottom and you will have to work your way up. It will not be an easy ladder to climb, Richard. This promotion will not be handed to you. Is this something you are interested in attempting?”

            Richard straightens, but he hesitates. How is he supposed to prove himself to the military when he can’t even prove himself to his own father? But then, what choice does he really have? If he can do whatever it is that Dr. Halfast says he can do, he can kill both birds with one timely promotion. No, he’ll kill all the birds. Just watch.

            “Where do I sign?” he asks, his voice steady.

 

            Minutes later, Richard walks out of the room carrying a red duffel containing his new uniform, a soldier’s handbook, and instructions for his first day of Basic Training. He walks out with his head high for the first time in…well..a really long time. He’s got a future now.

            Just watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I will hopefully be updating more regularly now that I've gotten this out of the way. 
> 
> As always, feel free to leave questions or critiques! :3


	8. Defining Characteristics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S A CHAPTER WHAT ON EARTH! 
> 
> I am SO sorry about the delay on this. For the past several months it's pretty much been work, go home, do more work, sleep, repeat. I've been able to get a bit of time off, and when I resume work, things should be a bit more balanced in my life. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has stuck with me through this pause! Please enjoy this chapter~

            Something blinks into place and a series of windows appears on the datapad. The windows are all full of gibberish, but they’re windows with actual information in them.

            “Okay, perfect.” Simmons breathes. “So then…”

He doesn’t know he’s saying any of this stuff out loud. But Grif sits up from his sprawled position on his sister’s abandoned bunk where he’s been bouncing an empty cookie sleeve against the faces of the various stars for the past thirty minutes.

            “Did you do it? Are you in?” Grif asks in a tone so enthusiastic, his teammate knows that he must be faking.

            “Well, technically yes. I have access to the files, but they’re all encrypted so I’ll have to get that worked out now,” Simmons explains.

            “So…wait…you’re saying the files died?” Grif’s nose wrinkles in confusion.

            “D-what?” Simmons blinks, his human eyebrow slanting in toward his nose.

            Grif’s face takes on a very specific grin that lets Simmons know that he’s being a smart-ass on purpose. Suddenly everything clicks and Simmons sighs before Grif can even speak.

            “You said they were in crypts so…”

            “Go away,” Simmons says through his teeth, his eyes already back on the data-pad in his hands.

            Grif falls backward with a sigh.

            “Go away where? Everything is boring,” he complains to one of Kai’s boy band posters.

            “Anywhere but here. Go see what Wash is doing or something,” Simmons says without looking up. His mind is half on the encrypted files on the screen.

            “No way. Wash’ll just make me do work. Fuck that,” Grif says, closing his eyes.

            “Well at least shut up so I can figure this out. I can’t think with your stupid invading my space,” Simmons says.

            To his great surprise, his teammate does not come back with some snarky comment. Simmons looks up. Grif has already fallen asleep, his sizable stomach moves up and down rhythmically, his mouth open ever so slightly. Simmons shakes his head. At least he’s not asking stupid questions.

 

            Wash jogs at an even pace across the sparse grass. He tries to zero in on the air going in and out of his lungs or the pounding of his boots on the grass and nothing else. He’s struggling to focus his mind—not because of his initial restlessness and fear about what Simmons could find out from Florida’s armor, or whether or not he’s on a stupid mission that will probably kill these guys. No, Wash can’t concentrate on his running because of the chattering box of nostalgia running alongside him as if it’s nothing.

            “…and so then Commander BearClaw threw the blue thing and killed Tex! Uh, Church was really mad about that,” Caboose says.

            “Caboose,” Wash pants. “Can we just…run?”

            “But Washington, we are running!” Caboose says. “And it is so much fun. Church didn’t do fun games like this.”

            Wash closes his eyes. Breathe in….Breathe out…..

“Without talking.” He says. It’s hard to keep his tone flat when his breathing is such a mess. He’s glad Carolina isn’t here to frown at him. She used to drill the team relentlessly about performing under distraction. He hasn’t been under her training regimen for a long time, but knowing Carolina, that wouldn’t be a good excuse.

            It occurs to Wash that it’s gotten really, really quiet. He glances to his right, where Caboose had been jogging alongside him. The blue soldier is not at his post. Wash turns, slowing to a backward jog. Caboose is a few paces back. He’s standing utterly still, staring at something in the distance.

            “Caboose?” Wash says. He gives up trying to jog and goes over to the blue soldier, mind frantically reviewing the past few minutes. What happened? Did he do something? Wash wipes sweat from his face. Why are these teams so emotionally unstable?

            “Hey, look, it’s fine. If you really want to keep telling stories, I mean—“

            “It’s Sheila,” Caboose says, pointing.

            Wash follows his finger. An M808 Scorpion class tank—a little worse for wear—sits abandoned in the no man’s land near a scraggly tree. Something cold drops down Wash’s spine. He doesn’t know why—it’s just a battered, slightly rusted out hunk of dead metal. Unused equipment (the part of his brain that’s still Recovery One filters through correct disposal methods.) But something gives him the nasty suspicion he’s looking at a long abandoned corpse.

            “Sheila?” he asks. Why does he remember that name?

            “She was my friend,” Caboose explains. “I moved her from the tank to the spaceship. You met her there once, remember? But this is her first body. This is where we met.”

            Sheila. Wash remembers—when they’d first met, Alpha had described the spaceship’s onboard computer program as “an old friend.” Caboose had been defensive when Wash had spoken to her like any other computer program. He’d addressed her respectfully, rephrasing Wash’s commands into polite requests. Her voice had been familiar…like F.I.L.S.S., but not quite.

            “I, uh, I’m sorry,” Wash says awkwardly.

            Caboose takes off his helmet. Wash inhales with a little hiss. The blue soldier’s eyes aren’t quite clear like they were the first time but they’re clearer than normal. His blonde brows are knit together. Wash is silent, waiting. Is Caboose trying to focus? This is new.

            “Sheila was first. She’s how all of this started,” Caboose says. It’s the other voice—the serious one.

            “What do you mean?” Wash asks quietly. “First?”

            “I think…I think she was my friend in school. I went to school, you know. To university. And Sheila was there, too. Not at first, but later. She helped me with things. She lived with me after I…I think I put her in my apartment like I put her in the spaceship,” Caboose says slowly. “I had an apartment, too, I think. It was even blue.”

            Questions leap to the front of Wash’s mind and dance on the tip of his tongue, but he’s ready for the fever and bites them back this time. North’s listening silence was always more encouraging than York’s barrage of questions. It was definitely better than South’s method of sitting on him and flicking his face until he “confessed.” And it was way more comforting than Florida’s attempt to “hug it out.” (Did that come with him to this place? To these people?) Wash tries to arrange his features into a mask of patience and openness. He tries to remember what North’s listening face looked like. He tries to ignore the cold dart in his chest when he can’t quite pull up the image.

            “She came with me the first time I met Church—the time before here. He knew about her and asked me to bring her. He wanted to meet her. I think he liked her,” Caboose’s eyes are fixed on the shell of the tank. (Is it even really broken or just empty? He might be able to operate it; all the Freelancers were trained to operate most of the UNSC war machines. Would it be appropriate, though, all things considered…?) Caboose frowns.

            “But he didn’t want to call her Sheila. What did he call her?”

            “F.I.L.S.S…. it stands for, uh…” Wash falters—not as helpful as he intended.

            “Freelancer Integrated Logistics and Security System,” Caboose recites, the words tumbling out of his mouth a little too quickly. He’s catching them before they get away back to…back wherever his memories are.

            “Yeah...” Wash says, eyebrows going up.

            “She was different. Not the same as mine. I didn’t want him to have mine. Sheila belongs to me,” Caboose’s hands press in on his helmet. Does the armor piece actually pop and crack or is that Wash’s imagination?

            “So you wrote F.I.L.S.S.” Wash says, watching as Caboose hesitates, then nodes. Wash shoots him a sideways grin.

“You know, I owe you a few bruises and a lot of sore muscles for that.”

            Caboose looks at Wash—actually looks at him for the first time. Wash almost shivers when those clear blue eyes meet his—he’s talking to someone else. Not Caboose. The ghost of a grin touches the blue soldier’s lips. It’s different than Caboose’s usual wide smile—the one that’s 100% joy. Wash imagines that this is the smile of a confident programmer, pleased with his work. After all, that’s what he is, right?

            “Dr. Church did have certain parameters that needed to be met,” he says.

            Wash starts to laugh, but stops, startled. Caboose’s voice drips with a smug innocence that he usually associates with Delta. “You taught it sarcasm? Isn’t it a logical computer program? How’d you teach it sarcasm?” York always responded the same: You’ll figure it out when you get yours. It’s…a really personal experience. Wash wouldn’t find out.

            “Yeah, that sounds like the Director,” Wash responds dryly.

            “I miss her,” Caboose says.

            The grin and the smugness is gone. All that remains is emptiness.

            Wash doesn’t know what to say.

            “Is this whole thing a dumb idea?” is what comes out of his mouth.

            There’s a part of his brain that is laughing at the irony of him asking Caboose of all people for advice. He looks up at the soldier. The clarity is fading but he earns a small smile.

            “Chasing ghosts? I don’t know if it’s a good idea or not but it might be important. Memory is the key.”

            Like a light switch, the last sentence dims Caboose’s eyes and his full, empty smile returns.

            “Besides, this adventure is really fun.”

            “Hey, wait!” Wash doesn’t know what he’s trying to achieve. He’s even grabbed Caboose’s shoulder, trying to catch the other Caboose before he’s gone again. He gives it a desperate little shake. “How are you doing this?”

            This time, Caboose’s smile is somewhere in between.

            “Memory is the key,” he repeats.

            And that’s it. That’s the only explanation Wash is going to get. The Developer (that’s who he was. It has to be) is still in there somewhere. Wash wants to ask him what happened to him and why he can sometimes come out—but he figures if Caboose knew that, he’d be the Developer all the time, wouldn’t he?

            “I don’t know,” South said, chucking the empty bottle of Fireball against the wall and grabbing another one out of the fridge, “sometimes it’s just better to be out of your head all the time. As far out as possible, if you ask me.”

            “Not too far,” North said warningly. Soon, they’re wrestling over the bottle.

            Wash shakes off the goosebumps he can’t help but get every time he has one of these conversations.        But he doesn’t know where to go from here. He’s about to suggest they start jogging again when his comm beeps at him.

            “Hey, I’ve got something,” Simmons says.

            “On my way,” Wash says, relieved. He looks up at Caboose.

            “Let’s go back and see what Simmons found,” he says.

            “Okay!” Caboose sounds chipper enough. They take off for the blue base.

            It isn’t until a few minutes have passed that Wash realizes they’re finally running in silence. He casts a glance to his left; Caboose smiles back at him.

            But is it Caboose or the Developer he’s looking at?

 

            “Seriously, Sir? It’s just a building. This is important,” Simmons pleads.

            “If it’s that important, you can have the meeting out here, can’t you?” Sarge replies, arms folded adamantly over his chest.

            “What’s going on?” Wash asks, slowing to a stop by the two red soldiers. Caboose stops a few paces behind him.

            “I’m not goin’ in Blue Base,” Sarge insists.

            Simmons casts Wash a pleading look. Wash closes his eyes and counts to ten.

            “All right, look, if you go in the base to hear what Simmons has to say, I’ll let you break something inside,” he says.

            “Hmmm,” Sarge’s stance relaxes minutely as he considers this. “Anything I want?”

            “The base itself is not an option,” Wash amends quickly. “Let’s keep it within reason.”

            “Hmmmm,” Sarge says louder.

            Simmons has his head in his hands. Wash considers joining him.

            “All right, I’ll take it,” Sarge says finally.

            “Thank you!” Simmons cries, throwing his hands up into the air. He stalks off into the base. Wash, Sarge, and Caboose follow him.

            When they reach the barracks, they find Tucker and Grif sitting next to each other on a bunk.

            “Dammit!” Tucker sighs upon the group’s entrance.

            “Told you,” Grif says with a smug grin, holding out one hand and wiggling his fingers.

            Tucker grumbles as he slaps some cash down into Grif’s waiting palm.

            “Thank you. Lovely doing business with you, sir!” Grif says in a frustratingly smarmy voice.

            “Shut up,” Tucker says.

            “Okay, everyone’s here. You woke me up for this big fucking announcement. Let’s hear it,” Grif says, looking at Simmons.

            “Yeah, I cracked the code. I give you, Blood Gulch: Project Alpha,” Simmons says. He holds up the datapad. Wash, heart in throat, crosses the distance to take the datapad from Simmons in two strides.

 

            Project Alpha: The Alpha AI must be protected at all costs. Its protection depends on its secrecy—the other soldiers DO NOT and WILL NOT know what the Alpha is. This is imperative.

            Mission parameters: Prepare the soldiers at Project Alpha (Codename: Blood Gulch) to protect and preserve the Alpha AI per Sim missions. Continue experimenting the extent of the Alpha AI as instruction from Command arrives—report on Alpha’s responses in various situations; he will need to lead his troops, calculate and plan attacks and defenses, and make difficult decisions quickly and efficiently—more so than any human would be expected to do.

           

Wash reads this to himself, then out loud to the Sim soldiers. They are all silent, waiting. Wash breathes for a moment, skimming the next section before moving on.

We have built the Alpha a team of Simulation Soldiers that is very specific to his situation. Per the Counselor’s recommendation, the following soldiers have been assigned to serve alongside the Alpha AI.

Sgt. Joseph Briggs:  
            DESIGNATION: Chief Engineer  
            TEAM: Red

            Private Dexter Grif:  
            DESIGNATION: Wheelman  
            TEAM: Red

            Private Richard Simmons Jr.

            DESIGNATION: Unstoppable Force (Virtual)  
            TEAM: Red

            Private Lavernius Tucker:  
            DESIGNATION: Covenant Mastery  
            TEAM: Blue

            Private Leonard Church  
            DESIGNATION: Alpha AI

            TEAM: Blue

 

            “Okay, what the fuck does that mean?” Tucker asks after a confused silence has passed.  

            “A person’s designation in a team like this would usually indicate the role they’re supposed to fulfill. So I guess….that’s what we’re supposed to be doing?” Simmons says, shrugging.

            “Yeah, makes sense to me,” Grif says, looking pleased.

            “Okay, but what does mine mean?” Tucker asks.

            Wash is filtering through the different pages. There are brief details about everyone’s jobs and skill sets. Some notes have been added below the details. Florida’s chillingly cheery voice clashes with the Director’s cold, informational tone: “Delivered robot kit to red team. Sarge seems super excited about it. Stole a few important pieces. Can’t wait to see how he solves this puzzle!”

            After the team bios, Wash finds a series of messages between Florida and the Mother of Invention. Most of it is just Florida checking in and the assignment/completion of various scenarios.

            “Hey, Washington,” Sarge interrupts his fevered reading. Once the red sergant is sure he has Wash’s attention, he continues.

            “So if we’re supposed to be protecting the Alpha and working….together…” (this is said at grudging growl) “Then what was our mission? What were we supposed to be doing?”

            “I’m not sure,” Wash says.

            The last few messages are brief—it must have been when things had gotten real patchy at Project Freelancer:

            Request accepted.

            -

            Sending new recruit. Bio files coming with recruit.

            -

Prepare to initiate.

            “Initiate what?” Simmons is looking over Wash’s shoulder.

            “I don’t know. I can’t find anything about it here. It’s likely that they had Florida memorize the actual mission in case things were compromised. He was good at that sort of thing,” Wash says. Florida had had the incredible ability to memorize long lists of things and recite them on command. He could recite anything he’d ever learned—he could do nursery rhymes from his childhood to entire lectures by the Director. It would make things easier

            “So that’s it?” Grif says, eyebrows slamming down over his dark eyes. “We just don’t get to find out what we were here for?”

            Wash sighs, flipping through more files without much hope. The final phase of the plan is nowhere to be found.

            “I guess not,” he says hesitantly.

            There’s a way, but he won’t suggest it. He can’t—it wouldn’t be fair to them. Their search ends here.

            “Why don’t we just ask the Freelancer Director?” Caboose asks. Five heads swivel in his direction.

            “What are you talkin’ about, Blue?” Sarge asks.

            “Church and Carolina went to go see the Freelancer Director, right? Why not go catch up and ask him when we get there?” Caboose says, looking at everyone as if it’s the simplest solution in the world.

            After a moment of silence, Wash takes a deep breath, then nods.

            “Actually, he’s not wrong,” he admits, voice quiet. “I wouldn’t recommend actually asking the director anything, but any remaining information would be with the Director. We could get it from the computers after….after Carolina has done what she went to do.”

            “So…now you actually want us to go to the place we didn’t want to go to in the first place?” Grif says incredulously.

            “Yeah. Fuck that,” Simmons says, shaking his head.

            Wash finally sets the datapad down.

            “I’m not asking you to go. I think it’s a terrible idea. But that’s where the information is,” he says. He holds his hands out in a “take it or leave it” gesture.

            “Well. Good adventure everybody! Shame it didn’t work out!” Simmons flashes two thumbs up, a smarmy smile pasted across his face.

            An electric crackle makes everyone jump. Tucker is on his feet, sword activate. Wash lifts his head in response.

            “Are you sure?” he asks.

            Tucker looks from face to face, his own set hard.

            “We didn’t come all this way for nothing. We can finally figure out exactly how bad these dicks are screwing us over,” he says. “Let’s finish this.”

            Caboose gives a happy little bounce. The Reds look at each other. Simmons catches the spark in his CO’s eye and nods knowingly. Grif closes his eyes as Sarge starts to laugh.

            “Oh why the hell not!” he says. “We might as well see this to the end. Besides, Church and that Agent Carolina probably need us to save ‘em.”

            Wash highly doubts this, but he does bet that Carolina won’t be sorry for a little backup.

            “All right, then. It’s settled. Grab anything we might be able to use from these bases and let’s leave at 0400,” he says.

            Grif’s groaning is cut out by Caboose cheering.

            “Yes! Church is going to be so surprised when we show up to help him!”

            Wash half-smiles in agreement. But he wonders who will be more surprised—Epsilon or the Director himself?

           

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeez, Wash. Give 'em a break. Early mornings = the worst. 
> 
> I have lots of scribbles prepped for the next chapter, which SHOULD NOT take several months to write -__- 
> 
> Tucker's backstory is next, and I'm really excited to write it. Stay tuned! :3


	9. Not All Human

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so it did take several months to write. I have excuses on my Tumblr, we'll ignore them for now. 
> 
> I have so much to say about this chapter, but I'll wait until the end. Just know that I'm a little in love with this backstory and I have SO MANY THINGS I cut out because of irrelevance. If any of these back stories get more bits posted later, outside of Algernon's Bouquet, it'll be this chapter (which honestly surprised me!) 
> 
> A special thank you to everyone who has continued to hang on for this one...everyone who left kudos, comments, or asks on my tumblr. I love every one of you, and every comment/kudos...as much as they filled me with guilt. T.T

    Lavernius Tucker doesn’t know where his name came from any more than he knows where he got the blue-violet shimmer to his otherwise inky skin—a shimmer that only show up in certain lighting and make his eyes almost seem to glow in the dark. He knows he’s always had this trait as long as he can remember, and that it seems to mean a lot more to everyone else than it does to him. For some, it seemed to mean that he was the product of some unholy alliance or poisoned by the disease of the wanton woman. For others, it made him exotic and desirable—or at least interesting.  

            He used to wonder about his origins more…back when he was a kid. He passed the sleepless hours he’d spent hiding in alleys behind the seedy bars struggling to find some memory of who gave him his name, his skin, and his dark home on the streets of 35.7.9. He passed days watching people file into the spaceport, scrutinizing each face, the way the artificial light glittered off their skin. Did it match, he wondered. Did that man have his nose or his strong jawline? Did that woman give him a knowing smile like she knew him?   

            But thoughts like that lead you nowhere fast. Lavernius hasn’t asked questions or watched travelers in a long time—he’s got more important things to think about than bullshit about where he came from. This is what matters to Lavernius Tucker: 1: That his city belongs to him 2: That his kids are safe and find a future. 3: That his girls are safe. 4: That he’s got a place to sleep and maybe something to eat. And that’s it. That’s all.  

Those four things keep him busy enough. He doesn’t have time for philosophy. As for where he came from, well, he came from right here. He was birthed by the stars to be milked by the streets and spaceships passing through. This place, this city is—

            “Shut your mouth, boy. That’s the biggest load of _shit_ I’ve ever heard.”

            Lavernius looks up, broken away from his practiced narrative, hand frozen mid-gesture. Tonight, he’s entertaining the esteemed associates of _The Strange Lady_. He has a very good relationship with the pleasure house—he’s been dong “odd jobs” for them since he could wield a baseball bat. He keeps some of the rougher clientele at bay for the low fee of a hot meal and maybe a place to sleep on slow nights. The stars of the Strange Lady adore him—over the years he’s become the pet of the majestic Darque Chocolate, who is presently staring him down from beneath gold glitter-speckled lashes.

            “What do you mean it’s a load of shit? I’m telling you exactly—“

            “What you tell every floozy merchant’s daughter fresh off the boat,” Darque Chocolate shakes her head, amber curls bouncing against her full cheeks. She’s reclined on her chaise, elegant and full of soft grace. The warm lights are just dim enough to make the skin that inspired her name glow.  This room was designed for just that purpose—to make Darque Chocolate glow.

            “I hear you got those delightful twins a job waitin’ tables on the last cruise ship come through here. When you gonna find a ship for yourself?” she asks. She fixes him with a stare that has frozen many men, women, and other beings in their tracks. “This ain’t no place for a growin’ whatever you are.”  

            “Why would I do that?” Lavernius asks, flopping backward onto the plush fuchsia carpet of Darque Chocolate’s boudoir. “I’ve got a lot going for me here. They don’t belong here. I do. This is home. You don’t turn your back on home.”

            Darque Chocolate shakes her head again, making disapproving “Mmm” sounds. She reaches out and snaps her perfectly manicured fingers. A new glass of luminescent wine seems to materialize in her hand. She sips it before continuing.

            “I’m not tryin’ to run you off, Lavernius. I’m just sayin’ is all.” Her tone is conversational and quiet, but that’s just a front. Lavernius has been in her court long enough to know that _now_ is when he needs to listen. When Darque Chocolate is “just sayin’,” she’s about to drop some serious advice that won’t be repeated later. Many careers have been ruined because girls didn’t listen to Darque Chocolate when she was “just sayin’.”  He sits up to oblige her.

            “This place is good enough for me and my girls, and for grease monkeys and barkeepers. But a clever boy like you? You need to get outta here and get a _life_. Savin’ spaceport whores and defendin’ orphans ain’t livin’. Kind as it is.” Darque Chocolate salutes him with her glass, gold nails shimmering in the low light.

            Lavernius tries to think of a snappy comeback but he can’t. This isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation. It started as another game of banter, but it gets more serious all the time. She’s right, but that first step away from home is still too big for him. He’s not ready. He thinks about spaceships and the claustrophobia of space and he can’t do it. He knows his world is small enough already. It’s _too_ small and he knows it—that fact sits in the back of his mind like a little light he can’t shut off. But a spaceship is even smaller…the thought alone makes his throat close up and his palms sweat.

            “Now get outta here, boy. I’ve got a client tonight and I can’t have trashy orphans lyin’ around when they get here. You’ll mess up my _aesthetic_ ,” Darque Chocolate says, restoring the banter that usually fills their time together. Lavernius stands, relieved. He shoots her an impish grin.

            “Still taking clients at your age, Chocolate? Good for you! I guess some sickos have a granny complex. Bow chicka bow wow!” he says, winking at her and slipping out the door.

            It’s just banter and Darque Chocolate smiles as Lavernius vanishes through the back passages used by the servants.  That’s the way things go. She knows she’s got him thinking. As she stretches and gets up to select the outfit for her evening assignation, she wonders which of their conversations will be their last. She’s not sure whether she hopes this is it or not. After all, she’s fond of the kid.

 

            The “kid” walks quickly through the dark servants’ passages and out into the alley. He takes a deep breath of the synthetic night air and walks toward the club district to find someone to go home with for the night. He considers his favorites. He almost heads for Errerra, but goes for Blue Moon at the last minute. Blue Moon is lit up in (big surprise) blue lights that bring out Lavernius’s natural undertones while making them seem less unnatural. As the Strange Ladies have taught him over the years, it’s all about the aesthetic—your surroundings can make or break your desirability. Learn how to use it, and your job gets a million times easier.

            Drink soon in hand (leaving one confused patron at the bar, arguing with the snickering bartender), Lavernius scans his options. The dance floor is full of possibilities but he doesn’t have the energy to keep up tonight. He turns his attention to the tables—no, mostly people in pairs. He’s pulled it off before, but he’s just not in the mood to juggle. He just wants a nice, simple partner to go relax with. After all, he spent the day getting the twins ready and helping them land their new jobs in their new home. Pretending to be the “previous employer who wants to see his best waitresses shine” is exhausting work.

            Wait—yeah, there we go.

            There’s a nerdy type sitting by herself, face illuminated in the glow of a datapad. She’s kind of adorable –shoulder length curls falling into her face and all caught up in her glasses. She’s still got her lab coat on. Somebody forced her out of work, then ditched her. Perfect. She’s _cute_. Lavernius is in the mood for cute.

            “Hey, so, you want to get out of here and play doctor?” he asks, sliding into the seat across from her. The girl looks up, eyebrows raised in annoyance. _Spaceport trash,_ her face says. There was a time when that would have chased him off. Not anymore. He smiles winningly at her.

            “I’m sorry?” She asks finally. _Go away_ is the hidden message in her tone of voice. Again, Lavernius is not bothered.

            “ _I’m_ sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “I was just wondering who wears a lab coat at a club.” She rolls her eyes.

            “Someone who has a lot to do but got sent out to enjoy shore leave.” Her voice is flat.

            “Yeah, you sound like you’re really enjoying yourself. Actually, I came over because it looked like you were having way too much fun and I was worried you’d get hurt,” Lavernius says, leaning in. Her lips turn up at the corners. Just a little bit. That’s enough for him. He relaxes at the table.

            “Look, I have a lot to do. I’ve got to get this figured out.” Her voice clearly says _I’m busy—Go away. Now._ Lavernius ignores it.

            “So what are you working on?” he asks.

            “Extraterrestrial hieroglyphics,” she says. “I’m trying to analyze these markings and try to figure out their origin so we can move forward and translate them.”

            “That sounds cool,” Lavernius says. He even kind of means it. “Can I see?”

            Her eyebrows go up again. A smug smirk crosses her face. Lavernius knows this one pretty well. She thinks he probably can’t even read basic, let alone alien writing. And, well, he can’t really blame her. She’s half right.

            “Knock yourself out,” she says and slides her datapad across the table. Lavernius picks it up and studies the screen.

            There are several photographs of a stone (it looks stone, anyway) box with weird glyphs carved into it. The glyphs seem to be glowing white, slightly. Most of the glyphs are pulled out into a separate window, where his new friend has been storing notes. Lavernius studies the images and her notes for a few minutes.

            “Are you going to put the little dots in your notes later or are they not important?” he asks, squinting at the photograph. It’s the only intelligent thing he can think of to say.

            “What?” she asks Her voice is surprised— _just_ surprised.

            “You wrote down all the squiggle lines but you didn’t do any of the dots that go with them. I was just wondering,” he shrugs and hands the datapad back. He probably made an idiot of himself anyway. Eh. Worth a shot. She reaches for it quickly.

            “Give that to me,” she snaps, her eyes already scanning the photographs before the device has fully crossed the table.

            “There aren’t any dots,” she says after a minute of intense study.

            “Yeah there are. There are lots of them. Dude, what are you talking about?” Lavernius says, frowning. The scientist is frowning, too, eyes narrowed dangerously. This isn’t going very well.

            “Are you screwing with me?” she demands in a low voice.

            _Probably not now_ , Lavernius thinks bleakly. He wishes he’d have picked a dancing person or sat down with one of the couples.

            “No!” he says out loud. “Why the hell would I lie about that? What would be the point?” He holds out his hands for emphasis.

            “Because spaceport riffraff _love_ messing with—“ she stops and blinks. Lavernius follows her gaze down to his outstretched hands. Lavernius starts to pull them back, but she grabs one and holds it close to her face.

            Weird as it is, Lavernius has to admit that her close inspection of his palm and then the back of his hand is kinda turning him on.

            “Are you gonna tell my future or something?” Lavernius asks finally, as she turns his hand back to palm-up without giving any indication of returning it to him. She’s even pulled out a small light and is moving it in weird patterns over his hand. She looks up at him, shining the light into his face for a moment before clicking it off. Lavernius blinks away spots to find her smiling, eyes bright behind her glasses.

            “I see you coming with me,” she says. “Right now.”

            Score.

            “See? I knew you’d come around!” Lavernius says, standing. She doesn’t respond. She’s too busy shoving things into her grey messenger bag. Once her items are secure, she grabs his arm and pulls him toward the doo A few people in civilian clothes cat call her.

            “Hey Jayden! Looks like you’re going to enjoy shore leave after all! Good for you!” a blonde girl shouts from the dance floor, twisting to keep her smirk on the scientist as the man and woman she’s been dancing with continue to write against her.

            “Friend of yours, Jayden?” Lavernius tries out the name. “I’m Tucker, by the way.”

            “Yeah, okay,” Jayden says, pointedly ignoring the dancing blonde.

            As they march through the streets, Lavernius finds his triumphant glee fading quickly. Her mood switched when she saw his hands. Why? What’d she see? What does she want from him? He doesn’t ask any of these questions.

            “Where are we going?” he asks instead. They’ve speed walked past most of the nicer hotels and are now rapidly passing by some of the sort-of-grungy ones. They’re getting pretty close into “no tell motel” territory. Even Lavernius has standards.

            “My place,” Jayden says. Her voice is all business again, though it’s peppered with the tiniest hint of excitement.

            “Where are you staying?” Lavernius tries for a straight answer again

            Jayden shoots him a confused glance, street lights flashing off her glasses.

            “I’m not staying in a hotel. We’re going home,” she says.

            Instead of excitement, Lavernius’s stomach knots with anxiety. Home. A spaceship.

            He pulls his arm out of her grasp—she had still had a firm grip on his wrist, half dragging him down the streets. She stops and watches him as he backs up a few steps. She looks less than impressed but to be honest? Lavernius doesn’t care about that right now. This really isn’t the evening he’d been picturing even ten minutes ago.

            Visions of hurtling through the star-cracked blackness of space, the pressure on the sides of the little tin can threatening to kill them all at a moments’ notice are slowly taking over his mind. He imagines himself squished into a tiny room, unable to escape. Claustrophobia slowly creeps across his brain.

            Jayden reaches out to grab him again. Normally he’s into handsy women but…

            “What is wrong with you?” she demands as he evades her. “Ten seconds ago you were practically begging to come home with me.”

            “Woah, first of all, sweetie, I don’t beg, okay?” Lavernius says indignantly. “Second, I’m not into spaceships. If we’re going to do this, we’re doing it on the ground….bow chicka bow wow.” This last is said under his breath.

            Jayden rolls her eyes.

            “Look kid, I don’t know what your trip is, but if you weren’t about to break this project wide open, I would have left you at the club.” She tries for a sultry grin, but somehow it doesn’t suit her. She realizes this and drops the smile with a sigh. “Come with me and we both _score_ , okay?”

            Lavernius stares at her for a long time, considering. Scoring isn’t necessarily the first thing on his mind right now but…it’s a place to stay for the night that’s not a dark, dangerous street. It’s not like the ship will take off with him on it. The scowling scientist in front of him wouldn’t let that happen—no _way_ does she want him around that long.

            “Okay, fine. Jeez. If you want me that bad, let’s go, baby,” Lavernius holds out his arm with a flourish and lets her lead him off again.

 

            Minutes later, they come to the port. Jayden drags Lavernius toward one of the biggest ships he’d ever seen. He stares up at it and wonders briefly if it were possible to feel claustrophobic on that beast of a ship.  What would all of his street urchin kids say if they saw him on a ship like that? What would Darque Chocolate and the girls think of him if he showed up in a crisp UNSC uniform someday?

            She’d probably laugh, knowing Darque Chocolate.

            As Jayden leads him to the airlock, Lavernius catches the name of the ship… the Mother of Invention. For some reason, this name makes him laugh. Talk about a ship of nerds. What does that even mean?

            “Shut _up_ ,” Jayden hisses.

            Lavernius notices that she’s gotten slower. She’s all but creeping along the walls, eyes shifting back and forth behind her glasses.

            “So, uh, I’m allowed to be here, right?” He asks, already knowing the answer.

            “It’s fine. If we get caught, I’m sure they’ll make an exception,” Jayden says, not looking at him.

            “An exception? What do they usually do to people who aren’t supposed to be here?” Lavernius asks, his voice rising an octave.

            “Don’t worry about it. It’ll be fine.”

            Jayden still isn’t looking at him.

            “Uh, dude, that wasn’t an answer. I don’t want to get court marshalled or executed or something, okay? Are you _sure_ this is fine?”

            Jayden curses in another language and pulls him down a corridor. This one seems a little darker which—for some reason—makes Lavernius feel a little safer.

            “Look, what you’re going to do is save my career. And the careers of my colleagues. We’re under a little pressure right now, okay? You’ll be fine,” Jayden says.

            “So I know you’re trying to do something with that box in the picture, but what am I supposed to do?” Lavernius asks.

            It’s only just occurred to him to wonder what his part in all of this is going to be. After all, he’s no scientist. He hasn’t been to an education facility of any sort, let alone one where they give you a big fancy degree and a white lab coat. (That’s where you get lab coats, right? When you graduate from college or whatever?) He’s not really qualified to do science. Hopefully she’s not planning on doing science _on_ him.

            “I need you to look at the artifact and help me adjust my transcriptions. Those dots you were talking about might be our missing piece,” Jayden says. “Although I don’t understand why _you_ can see them and I can’t.”

            This last is said under her breath. For some reason, the tone of her voice sends shivers down Lavernius’s spine.

            _I shouldn’t be here_ , he thinks again. But it’s too late. They’re at a wide metal door with some numbers and letters on it. Jayden digs through her bag and pulls out a keycard. She slides it through a slot next to the door and types a code into the keypad. The door slides open.

            “You science nerds are kinda dramatic, aren’t you?” Lavernius says, eyebrows raised.

            The room is dark, except for a few spotlights shining dimly on the artifact. Different machines and tables full of equipment and tools that Lavernius doesn’t recognize cluster around the edges of the room. Some of them beep quietly; others have blinking lights. It looks like a movie set.

            “Shut up,” Jayden says, walking into the room without hesitation. She moves to different consoles, pushing buttons and flipping switches. Lavernius steps into the room carefully, waiting for alarms to sound and armies to swoop down and execute him on site.

            None of that happens. Lavernius walks right up to the big stone (is it stone?) box without anything bad happening. He inspects it with some interest. Now that it’s a real object and not just a photograph, he can see how the science nerds missed the dots in the writing. They seem to shimmer in and out of existence depending on where he moves his head.

            “Here,” Jayden says, waving something thin and white in front of his face. Lavernius takes the object. It looks like a white marker.

            “The fuck do you want me to do with this?” He asks.

            “Mark on the artifact wherever you see the dots. Just trace them. Easy, right?” Jayden says over her shoulder. She’s already bent over one of the machines.

            “Woah, you want me to draw all over some ancient alien box? I knew it. You _are_ trying to get me killed,” Lavernius says, taking a step backward.

            “Christ on a boat. No, you idiot. It’s a stylus. You’ll be marking on the holoprojected overlay I’m putting over the artifact. Every mark you make will be digital. It’ll update our images so we can better read the transcription,” Jayden says in a voice that is begging for an aspirin. But sure enough, as Lavernius watches, a white grid flickers over the artifact, then fades out.

            “Get to work,” Jayden instructs.

            Lavernius shrugs and starts marking the dots. As much as he hates to admit it, he’s kind of interested in what the dots could mean. For some reason, he likes the idea of helping to uncover an ancient alien language. _Nerd stuff_ , he repeats to himself firmly. He imagines what the other kids would say if they saw him getting off on nerd stuff. Yeah, not happening.

            “So if you guys have all this fancy shit, like the holo-whatsit over-thing, how’d you miss these, anyway?” Lavernius asks. “I mean, I’ve always been better at solving puzzles and finding shit than anyone else I know, but let’s face it. It’s not like I’m working with high class scientists here. Shouldn’t you guys have picked this stuff up?”

            “One would think so. But it didn’t. I can’t even see them as you’re marking them,” Jayden admits. Lavernius gives her a surprised look. He was sure that once he’d started pointing them out, she’d get right on board and kick him back out to the streets.

            “Then why can _I_ see them?” he asks.

            “That’s a better question than you know,” Jayden says, sighing.

            _That’s not cryptic at all,_ Lavernius thinks, shaking his head.

            “Where are you from, originally?” Jayden asks. Lavernius follows her voice around the room as she continues messing with gadgets.

            “Dunno. As long as I can remember, I’ve lived here,” he says warily.

            “Okay, well, where were your parents from?” Jayden tries.

            “Dunno. Never met them. Or, well, not that I can remember, anyway,” his voice is flat. What _is_ everyone’s obsession with these stupid questions?

            “So you don’t know anything at all about your origins?” Jayden confirms.

            “Okay, am I here to help you with your science project or to get interrogated about my past?” Lavernius snaps.

            “Hey, I’m just trying to answer your question.”

            Jayden’s voice is right behind him. He turns to look at her just as she jabs something into his arm.

            “Hey, ow! What the fuck?” Lavernius shouts, not caring whether he gets caught now.

            “Man up, I’m just drawing some blood,” Jayden says, withdrawing the syringe and depositing the liquid into a few test tubes on a nearby table.

            “Did you ever think of asking first, crazy bitch?” Lavernius growls.

            “Would you have said yes?” Jayden asks.

            “Hell no! Are you crazy? Wait, no, that’s a stupid question,” Lavernius rubs at his arm.

            “Hmm.”

            Lavernius doesn’t take his eyes off Jayden as she rifles through some things on her tables. She comes back at him, wielding some big black wand.

            “Where are you sticking that?” he asks.

            “Nowhere, I’m just scanning. Are you done with the markings or…?”

            “I’m not doing anything until you get back on the other side of the room. What are you scanning for?” Lavernius demands, crossing his arms as she waves the wand around him. He puffs out his chest and does his best impression of a bouncer, but Jayden doesn’t seem bothered by it. She moves around him and waves her wand like she’s trapping him with a spell.

            “Seeing if you’re emitting anything,” Jayden says. “You’re not, by the way. Can I get a closer look at your eyes?”

            “My eyes? Why do you want to look at my eyes?”  Lavernius asks

            “Because you can see something a whole team of scientists couldn’t see. A team of people who spent year studying alien artifacts and languages missed something that some punk in a bar saw instantly in an _image_ , let alone the original work. That’s—“

            “Pretty awesome?” Lavernius tries.

            “Ridiculous,” Jayden corrects him. “You’re nobody.”

            _I really don’t want to be here_ , Lavernius thinks again.

            “Look, can I just finish marking this stupid thing for you so I can leave? I don’t think I want to play doctor anymore,” he says out loud.

            Jayden gives every indication of backing off. As good as his word, Lavernius attacks the artifact with renewed vigor. All he wants to do is go find one of his hideouts to sleep in. Forever. No more chasing crazy nerds.

            “Haven’t you ever wondered, though?” Jayden’s voice is soft.

            Against his better judgment, Lavernius looks over at her.

            “Wondered what?” he asks, keeping his tone as deadpan as possible.

            “Where you come from? Why your skin and eyes have fluorescent undertones? Why you can see things people can’t?”

            Lavernius grits his teeth. Her silky words have struck a place he tries not to think about anymore. He continues working, ignoring her for a minute or two. He thinks of every long day he spent watching people come and go on the docks, waiting for someone to recognize him. He thinks about the nights he used to spend staring at his arms and legs under the streetlights, trying to figure out what the colors meant. He thinks about Darque Chocolate’s words from earlier… _a growin’…whatever you are_. Whatever. Not whoever. What if Jayden could figure it out? Lavernius sighs.

            “Okay, fine,” he says. “Do whatever weird thing you want to do.”

            He feels a little bit of warmth as Jayden gives him a pleased smile. This disappears very quickly as “whatever weird thing you want to do” turns out to be stripping him down into his boxers and laying him flat on a table that’s set to slide into a large metal tube.

            “Don’t be a baby,” she responds, when he expresses his concerns with this situation.

            “You know,” he says as the table moves toward the tube, “When I imagined you getting me naked, this isn’t what I had in mind.”

            The table reaches the end of the tube.

            “You should be flattered, kid.” Her voice comes through speakers inside the tube. “Your body is fascinating. I could study you all night. I want to know what you are.”

            “Yeah, see, that’s what gives people false ideas about how their night is going to go,” Lavernius shouts, not sure if she can hear him.

            “I’ve been nothing but honest with you,” Jayden says innocently.

            White and blue lights flash above him and around him.

            “Bullshit! You said you wanted to slide me into your machine!”

            “Which I did. There you are, in my machine.”

            “I thought you meant your…you know! Lady machine!”

            “Ugh, grow up.”

            Lavernius sighs. This is really not doing anything for his claustrophobia. He breaths in and out and tries to pretend the lights are stars in the sky he’s used to—or even fabled _lightning_ – a cool effect he’s been told exists on planets with an actual atmosphere. Wide, open atmosphere.

            “Dr. Laurie, what are you doing? Use of this equipment hasn’t been authorized.”

            It’s a male voice speaking. Lavernius’s heart stops. While this isn’t the first time he’s been caught in his underwear with a chick, this is definitely the first time he’s been caught playing science with military personel. He’s really not in the mood to find out whether the military is better or worse than dads, brothers, husbands, wives, or the various other forms of lover he’s pissed off in the past.

            “Look, I need a few more minutes. We’ve made a breakthrough, and I need this information to find out why,” Jayden’s voice is higher, almost whining.

            “What do you have in this scanner, doctor?” the male voice inquires, firm and uninterested.

            “I—uh—“ Jayden hesitates.

            The white light flashes twice, then the tube goes dark. Lavernius hears a small _ping_ through the speakers.

            “A _civilian?_ You brought a civvie on board this ship? Do you have any idea what the Director will do when he finds out?” the male voice cries.

            “He’ll _thank_ me! I found the missing piece to our translation of the artifact. This guy—“

            “You showed him the artifact?”

            “I—“

            Lavernius hears a hand slam down on the side of the metal tube. The table starts to move out into the room. As much as he hates being in small spaces, Lavernius does _not_ want to leave his metal can of safety. There’s just something about meeting an angry UNSC guy while wearing your skivvies that Lavernius isn’t a big fan of. He takes a deep breath as Jayden’s pale face comes into view. He gets a glimpse of a red-faced, red haired man in a lab coat before throwing himself off the table and sprinting toward the door.

            “Tucker!” Jayden shouts.

            “Hey!” Instruments crash to the ground as the man chases after him.

            Lavernius struggles to remember how they got to the labs—the corridors in this stupid ship all look exactly the same. He tears up some corridors and down others, pushing past people who look too shocked to see a black dude in his boxers barreling down the corridor to do anything about it.

            “Yes,” he gasps, finally spotting the exit. Moments later, his bare feet hit the cold concrete of the dock. He is not alone, however. People in UNSC uniforms spill out of the airlock after him.

            “Son of a bitch,” Lavernius groans. He hasn’t even caught his breath yet. But as much as he wants to catch his breath, he doesn’t want those guys catching him and doing whatever the hell it is they do to people like him. He takes off again, ducking into the first alley he can find. They may have military training, but Lavernius knows these streets like nobody’s business.

            He heads for the closest hideout he’s got. He stumbles in through the heavy cloth hanging over the hole in the wall that serves as a door. Two teenagers and a few younger kids are sitting around a fire, poking at what appear to be food items wrapped in foil. They stare at Lavernius in surprise.

            “Hey, guys, what’s up?” He tries to sound casual, but his chest is heaving after his run through the city. His skin feels clammy with sweat and his bare feet ache from pounding unprotected against the ground.

            “The hell happened to you, Tucker?” the teenager with nearly translucent skin and long whitish hair asks, pale blue eyes widening.

            “Why are you naked?” one of the smallest boys adds, cracking a grin that quickly dissolves into immature giggles. A girl who can’t be more than ten stares at his sweaty body with large, intent eyes.

            “I got into a little trouble, okay? Do you have any spare clothes laying around?” Lavernius asks, knowing the answer. He tends to bring stuff by when he can—either stuff he’s bought or donations from some of the nicer hotel owners who want to clean out their “lost and found”. The kids are able to provide him a pair of track pants and a grey t-shirt. He crams his feet into shoes that are just slightly too small for him and sighs.

            “Thanks, guys,” he says, sitting down at last.

            “Who’s after you, man? We’ll take him on,” a teenage boy with burn scars on his arms declares. He looks ready to pick a fight, his fists clenched. Lavernius fights the urge to roll his eyes—he’s tried to get this one a job at several places now, but he’s always running off at the mouth or starting trouble. Darque Chocolate says Lavernius was the same way when he was younger, but he doesn’t quite believe her. No way was he _this big_ of a pain in the ass.

            “Nobody major,” Lavernius shrugs, playing it cool. “Just the UNSC.”

            All of the kids share exclamations of wonder. Lavernius sits back, pushing back his braids with a satisfied, carefree air.

            “What are you going to do?” the pale teen asks.

            “I guess I’m on the run for a while,” Lavernius says, grinning. “Gotta lie low and stuff.”  

            “Are they going to come after us, too? Since we helped you?” a sleepy looking girl wants to know. She looks more unhappy than scared of the thought.

            But it’s enough to give Lavernius pause. _Would_ the UNSC hurt any of his kids to get to him? Would they start taking in the street urchins of the spaceport until they found him? The thought pierces him like Jayden’s needle. He scrambles to his feet. Every impulse says he should run, but if any of his kids got hurt or taken away because of him…

            A score of scraggily, unhappy children march past his mind’s eye wearing military uniforms and exhausted frowns under terrified eyes. Huge officers with shadowy faces shove guns into each of their hands and point them toward a battlefield full of vicious aliens. He blinks the image away rapidly.

            Yeah, not happening on his watch. 

            “No, I’m sure you’ll be safe here. I’d better head out before they catch up. Don’t worry, guys. Tucker won’t let them get you,” he says, pointing at himself and grinning before leaving the hideout.

            Now what?

            Lavernius starts walking without destination in mind. He makes sure anyone out and about can see him clearly, whistling as loud as he can. He doesn’t want the soldiers to start looking in places they shouldn’t.

            He keeps a light, nonchalant pace, but his mind races. Where can he go? They’ll be coming after him any minute. What should he do?

            A violet neon sign comes into view as he turns a corner. Lavernius finds himself face to face with _The Strange Lady._

            Not a bad idea. Darque Chocolate will know what to do.

            Lavernius slips in through the back door ( _bow chicka bow wow_ ) and follows the passages to Darque’s rooms. He opens the discreet side door just enough to peer inside. The lights are on. No music plays, and there’s no scent of treats, lotion, or other signs of entertainment in the air. His friend should be alone. Relieved, Lavernius enters the room.

            “Hey Darque, you’re never gonna believe the night I’ve had,” he says.

            “Oh honey, you got yourself into some deep shit, didn’t you?” Darque Chocolate says, voice full of pity and—guilt?

            Lavernius spots her in the sitting room, fully dressed and looking concerned. Something isn’t right. He doesn’t like this.

            “What’s going on?” he asks nervously.

            Darque Chocolate beckons him over. She takes both of his hands in hers. The blue-violet tints in Lavernius’s skin have never been more apparent than when contrasted against the rich brown of her own skin.

            “You need to get yourself off of this rock, Lavernius Tucker,” Darque says softly.

            “What?” his voice is just above a whisper, his heart in his throat.

            “Listen to me. You’re not gonna like this, but they said they’re not gonna hurt you. The UNSC is a good job. They’ll pay you real money and train you so you can have a life somewhere far away from here.”

            Lavernius tries to pull away, but Darque Chocolate’s soft hands have a surprisingly firm grip.

            “What did you do?” he asks, already knowing.

            “They asked. I look out for my kids, just like you look out for yours. I wouldn’t have ratted you out unless I was sure they were gonna do right by you. They said you have a skill they need,” Darque Chocolate’s voice is soothing. “I hope someday you forgive me, Lavernius.”

            “Darque, come on,” Lavernius tries pulling away again. He needs to run.

            Darque’s eyes soften.

            “You do your best out there and make me proud, okay?” she says gently. “I like you an awful lot, you know. So, that being said, I never want to see your filthy orphan face around this joint again, you hear?”

            “Darque, why are you doing this?” Lavernius pleads.

            “Because you won’t ever do it on your own,” Darque chocolate says, squeezing his hands tightly before letting go. She looks past him and nods. Lavernius turns in time to see the mahogany doors open. The blonde from the club strides in, an annoyed scowl on her face.

            “You fucking ruined my night out, asshole,” she growls as she grabs Lavernius’s shoulder. She reeks of alcohol and smoke. “Don’t mess with me or I’ll deliver you to the Director with a few less fingers.”

            The largest man Lavernius has ever seen steps into the room. He has to lower his head just a little to step through the door. Like the blonde, this guy is wearing street clothes—kind of. He’s wearing cargo pants and a UNSC shirt that strains over his huge barrel of a chest. Angry red scars wrap around his throat and leap up into his face. Lavernius swallows hard. This isn’t a guy he even wants to _try_ to mess with  

            But the large man seems to ignore Lavernius. He looks at the blonde and lets out a raspy, spine-chilling growl. The blonde rolls her eyes.

            “Dude, listen to him. I want me in one piece, too,” Lavenrius says in a rush.

            “What the fuck? Did you just understand _Maine_?” The blonde demands, blue eyes widening as she looks between Lavernius and the big guy.

            _What, like it’s hard?_  Lavernius doesn’t say. The guy made himself pretty clear. But Lavernius doesn’t give a response—these people don’t seem very…stable.

            “Come on, let’s get back to the ship,” the blonde says, as if Lavernius or Maine were the reason they weren’t moving. She steers Lavernius toward the door, gripping his bicep in an iron grasp. What _is_ it with women wanting to drag him around tonight?

            Lavernius casts one last betrayed look over his shoulder where Darque Chocolate sits, hands folded on her lap. She gives him a small smile.

            This, she knows, is the last time she’ll see that boy.

 

            “Thank you Maine, South Dakota. You are dismissed.”

            Lavernius doesn’t like this man’s voice—something about it is too calm and collected.

            “What? You’re not even going to tell us why we got called away from our last night off to catch this guy?” the blonde spits. “This is bullshit.”

            “I’m sorry you feel that way, South Dakota. You are dismissed,” the man says again.

            Maine lets out another soft growl. Lavernius thinks he sees a flash of orange near the large man’s shoulder…but then again, he’s pretty tired. It’s been a long night.

            South Dakota rolls her eyes and the two of them exit. The door shuts behind them, leaving Lavernius alone in the room with the eerily calm man.

            “You’ve caused quite an uproar, Lavernius Tucker,” the man says with a small smile.

            “Look, this isn’t my fault,” Lavernius says, holding his hands up.

            “What isn’t your fault?” the man says, looking at him over a datapad. He has a stylus at the ready.

            “Any of this. I didn’t mean to break into your secret lab or whatever. Jayden just thought I could help her with her project,” Lavernius explains.

            “Yes, you do seem to have been able to contribute some interesting clues to our artifact problem. For the moment, we’ll pretend like this was not classified information that you had no right to view.” The man’s voice is pleasant, but icy. Lavernius swallows hard.

            Twin holograms of the artifact appear on the table between Lavernius and the man with the datapad. One version has his markings on it, the other doesn’t.

            “Tell me about this,” the man says.

            “Uh, I don’t know anything about it,” Lavernius says hesitantly.

            Again with the small smile.

            “Try.”

            “It’s, I dunno. A box. Probably not a human box. It’s made out of stone or something. Jayden’s obsessed with it,” Lavernius shrugs. “And it seems important enough to haul me in off the streets.”

            “And the markings? What do you make of them?” the man asks.

            “I dunno,” Lavernius says again, fidgeting in his chair. What does this dude want? “There were a bunch of squiggles, but Jayden and her science buddies didn’t mark down any of the dots. Apparently they couldn’t see them.”

            “But you can,” the man presses.

            “Yeah, I guess. Whatever,” Lavenrius says. “So Jayden asked me to come mark them for her. That’s it. Can I go now?”

            “Why do you think you can see the markings when no one else can?”

            “I don’t know, okay? God, everyone keeps asking me that. I don’t know why I can see them. I only brought them up because I was trying to look cool so Jayden would bang me, okay?” Lavernius burst out.

            “I…see,” the man says. “Are you aware that several biological scans were taken of your physical form?”

            “Kinda, yeah, since some of them involved stabbing me with needles when I wasn’t looking,” Lavernius replies in a much quieter voice, glad the man has chosen to gloss right over his outburst.   

            The holograms change to show what he can only guess are the results of all the tests Jayden ran on him earlier. None of it makes any sense to Lavernius.

            “The results are very interesting. Where are you from, Lavernius Tucker?”

            This again.

            “I don’t know. I’ve been on my own on this spaceport as long as I can remember,” Lavernius says, flattening his voice as if reciting from a book.

            “You don’t remember your parents at all? Not even whether one of them might have been other than human?” the man says.

            “Woah dude, what are you saying?”

But Lavernius knows exactly what the man is saying. Other than human. Alien. If one of his parents were alien then he would be part alien, too. But that’s not possible, right? _Whatever you are_.  

            “Are you aware that some of your makeup might be extraterrestrial?”

            “I don’t wear makeup,” Lavernius snaps back, annoyed. He knows what the man meant but he’s tired of the “What is Lavernius” game that everyone seems to want to play with him today.

            The man stares at him blankly for several seconds. He opens his mouth, presumably to ask another question, but a female voice rings over the intercom.

            “Counselor, you are needed in Laboratory B,” it says pleasantly.

            “FILISS, I am currently in the middle of an interview,” the man responds.

            “I’m sorry, Counselor, but the Director—“

            There is a burst of static, then a plethora of background noises play over the intercom. People are yelling, though Lavernius can’t tell if they’re happy or distressed. Kinda sounds like they’re both at the same time. Electric sounds of mechanical work fizzle and clang behind the yelling.

            “Aiden, I need you. _Now_ ,” a loud male’s voice demands in a thick accent.

            “What is happening?” For once, the man’s calm mask of a face shows emotion: confusion, concern, and a dash of excitement.

            “We found it. It’s here,” The male voice breathes into the intercom, so full of greedy pleasure that Lavernius shivers.

            The intercom goes silent. Lavernius raises both eyebrows and looks at the man with the datapad—the Counselor or whatver, who is looking back at him considering.

            “Yo, it sounds like your friend needs you so uh, you should probably get to Lab B or whatever. I’ll see myself out, yeah?” Lavernius says, leaning back in his chair.

            The Counselor does not respond for the longest time, his eyes dropping down to the datapad in his hands. His long, deft fingers fly across the screen. Finally, he looks back up with a satisfied smile.

            “I’m sorry, it appears we must cut this interview short,” he says. “As for seeing yourself out…well…there is not currently an _out_ that is safe for you to see yourself to. In theory, anyway. It would be…interesting to see what climates your body is able to withstand.”

            “W-what?” Lavernius’s blood turns to ice as the man smiles toward the room’s one window. Lavernius stands and walks over to the window on weak legs. He touches the control panel that creates a holographic shade and sets it to “0”.

            As the shade dematerializes, Lavernius imagines the spaceport docks—the other ships that are next to the Mother of Invention, the cranky dock workers with battle scars and missing body parts. The stern checkpoint officers. His little city with its greasy neon.

            None of that greets his begging eyes.

            Space.

            Stars shooting past him.

            They’re moving so fast, but Lavernius never felt a thing. He’d always imagined his stomach turning as the spaceship of his nightmares took off. He thought there would have been engines churning under his feet, a friendly rumble that would let you know you’re moving, like in a car. He thought he’d feel the motion and the emptiness pressing in on him, threatening to suck his eyeballs out of his skull. He should be freaking out, but he just feels a cold numbness. Stars shoot past him as the floor beneath his feet remains still. It’s a trick but…it’s not.

            Lavernius places one hand on the window, then turns back to the smiling man.

            “You kidnapped me into fucking _space_?”

            The Counselor slides his fingers across datapad. Information displays in the center of the table. Lavernius ignores it for the most part, his eyes briefly drawn to Darque Chocolate’s advertisement photo—the one where she’s draped in shimmering ivory that accentuates each of her glorious curves and looking down at the camera with every ounce of attitude she has. Jayden’s photo, obviously taken from an ID card of some kind, looks plain and uninteresting in comparison.

            “According to our informant, you have no home to be kidnapped from, Lavernius. But you _do_ have skills that may prove very useful in future operations. You could be an asset to the UNSC, and to Project Freelancer. Of course, this is a privilege to be earned,” the Counselor says.

            “But I don’t want—“

            “I’m sure you are aware that the UNSC offers a generous rehabilitation program for those miscreants in trouble with the law?”

            “In trouble with the _law_? I’m not—“

            “You snuck aboard a military vessel and trespassed in a very sensitive area. You have seen classified military data and utilized tools of the military without authorization.”

            Lavernius stares, open mouthed.

            “Look, none of that was my idea! Jayden—“

            “You mean the scientist you harassed in a public area and manipulated into taking you aboard this vessel in a rather hostage situation?”

            “I didn’t—“

            But Lavernius stops as text highlights itself beneath Jayden’s photo. It’s in writing.

            _“If you get caught, kid, the authorities aren’t ever gonna listen to a street urchin like you,”_ Darque Chocolate had warned him years ago. _“The odds are already against you”_  

            He feels a spike of anger toward her for setting him up like this.

            “Okay, so what are you going to do with me?” he asks through his teeth. Visions of soldiers standing in a line, rifles raised to fire at him dance through his head.

            “As you have successfully assisted with a military project that was presenting a rather baffling challenge, we owe you some thanks. We have therefore enlisted you in the military, where you will be trained and assigned to a squadron. I am sure we will have need of your skills again, at which time we will call on you.” The Counselor smiles.  

            “Welcome, Cadet Lavernius Tucker, to Project Feelancer.”

            Lavernius leans back against the wall for support, taking everything in. Outside, his greatest nightmare continues to fly past him. In front of him, his life has gone from complicated to—military? This is their idea of _thanks_?

            “Fuck,” he says out loud.

            The Counselor swipes all the information from the table and tucks the datapad under his arm. He opens the door and steps outside. Two men in military uniforms step into the room.

            “Gentlemen, please see the cadet down to be outfitted and prepped for Basic,” the Counselor says with his creepy, calm smile.

            “Sir,” the uniformed men say in unison.

            _This is my life now_ , Lavernius thinks, as he steps forward to follow the two men.

            As they walk down the corridors, Lavernius sighs. Darque Chocolate and the other Strange Ladies offer advice from his past: _When find yourself overwhelmed, smile, throw on the charm, and lie your ass off._ Taking a deep breath, he throws an arm around each soldier’s shoulder.

            “So,” he says in a voice far more bright than he feels, “Level with me, guys. How easy is it to pick up chicks in that uniform? I bet they like it, don’t they? Man, chicks _love_ a guy in uniform. I mean, not as much as they love a man _out_ of uniform. Am I right? Come on.”

            “I—we don’t get much of a chance to uh…to pick up chicks,” the man on his right stammers, looking uncomfortable. Lavernius winks at him.

            “That’s okay. I’ll take whatever. I’m easy. _Bow chicka bow wow_.” He laughs at the man’s stunned expression.

            Okay, maybe this will be fun after all.

 

             

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE MADE IT! -deep breath- 
> 
> I ENJOYED WRITING DARQUE CHOCOLATE SO MUCH! I knew when I wrote the outline for this story in like, 2013 that I was 100% going to include Darque Chocolate...there was something about Tucker being raised by a bunch of Ladies of the Night that just pleased the hell out of me, and she was to be my leading lady. I did so much work writing little stories with her and Tucker... I just wanted her to go from being Miles's little nightmare stripper to this big, beautiful, majestic goddess. 
> 
> PLEASE come talk to me about Darque Chocolate. XD 
> 
> As always, let me know what you thought. Every kudos and comment becomes energy that makes me want to write more. 
> 
> ...I'm....I'm not making any promises. I will continue to write. I will post more chapters. When? WHO KNOW! 
> 
> <3 to all of you!


	10. Together Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, we're going to dance with the canon plot a little bit. There's also quite a lot of speculation in this chapter. Woo! 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos and comments on this work so far! I appreciate each and every one of you! <3 
> 
> Enjoy~

            Tucker sits on the back of one of the hornets he’s supposed to be loading with supplies. His gauntlets sit next to him and his black undersuit is rolled to the elbows. He moves his arms and stretches his fingers in the waning daylight, watching the blue and violet undertones shimmer beneath his skin.

            “What are you doing?” Washington asks, coming around the side of the hornet with eyes narrowed in suspicion. His question goes unheard. Tucker continues twisting his arm, staring at it.

            “Covenant mastery, huh?” Tucker murmurs, almost to himself. 

            “What?” Wash says, tone softening. Is that what the blue soldier is doing back here? Contemplating his role? Wash’s eyes settle on the colors in Tucker’s skin. He doesn’t remember them being this vivid before—maybe he just never noticed them. Wash wonders suddenly what other blood is mixed with the soldier’s human blood. He wonders if Tucker’s wondering the same thing. CT used to say that it was likely that there weren’t any pure-bred humans anymore. Everyone probably had a little bit of _something else_ in them. York never liked hearing her talk about that one. He’d shudder with horror before dismissing it as just another one of CT’s conspiracy theories. Wash has to resist holding his own hand up to the light to see what he can see under his skin. He realizes Tucker hasn’t responded. Heavy truths aren’t Wash’s thing; he defaults to soldier mode. Orders and protocol have always been easier. Wash straightens his shoulders.

            “Get back to packing. We’re starting early tomorrow, so we’ll want to go to sleep early, too,” he says with a taut snap in his voice.

            “Ugh, don’t remind me,” Tucker groans. But he rolls down his undersuit, shoves his hands back into his gauntlets, and hops off the back of the hornet. With an annoyed look at Wash, Tucker stalks off toward some crates.

            Satisfied, Wash walks around to see how the others are doing.

It’s a completely different atmosphere among the Reds and Blues, Wash thinks. The teams are quiet. Sarge and Grif check the hornets to make sure they’re ready to lift off. Washington can count the times Sarge has yelled at Grif on one hand—it’s a record low. Grif, on the other hand, keeps running his hand along the nose of the hornet thoughtfully, pausing to stare at his patchworked hand on the scarred metal.

            Simmons logs supplies on the datapad, making spreadsheets of all the ammo, food, and med kits they have and what they’re able to salvage from the bases. He moves methodically, counting and tapping things out with a grim precision Wash isn’t used to. Earlier, Wash had tried to take Florida’s datapad from him, but Simmons’ claim on the device was surprisingly firm. To be fair, the red soldier seems more at home with the datapad in his hands than he does without it.

            The only one who is acting like himself is Caboose. The tall blue soldier is taking care of some of the heavier lifting while cheerfully humming Sarge’s “I’ve Got The Blues” song to himself. Wash finds himself watching Caboose more and more carefully—the personality switch from their jog still has him shaken. Is “Caboose” an act? Or is he sometimes acting and sometimes not? Or is it completely uncontrollable altogether?

            “Hey, shouldn’t you be packing or something, too?” Tucker’s voice cuts into Wash’s speculation. The turquoise soldier is carrying a box, smirking at him.

            “I’m supervising,” Wash snaps, siphoning guilt out of his voice and replacing it with annoyance. “That’s my job.”

            “Bullshit, you’re as lazy as the rest of us,” Tucker says.

            “Stop trying to make us the same,” Wash says.

            Tucker waggles his eyebrows and grins. Wash hates this. It’s exactly what York used to do when he was very clearly indicating that anything you said was meaningless. Why does something so simple and stupid make him feel like the team rookie again? Even more frustratingly, why does that feeling fill him with such nostalgia and longing?

            Wash sighs as Tucker strides away chuckling. At least things are kind of returning to normal.

           

            The sun dips below the horizon as Wash and his scraggly team make camp in the mess hall of Blue Base. It hadn’t seemed right to him to sleep in the barracks. They seemed haunted somehow. Tucker had agreed without much comment, and Caboose had been convinced fairly easily after the idea of “Kitchen Sleepover” was planted in his head.

            Besides, Wash thinks to himself, watching Sarge direct his team in the construction of a “fort” consisting mainly of tables and blankets, it really would not have been worth the argument to get Sarge to sleep in a bunk with “Blue Germs” in it.

            “Okay,” Wash says loudly. “Your fort is good enough. I don’t think you’ll have to worry about invaders tonight.”

            “Damn straight. Not with my foolproof traps. There’s no way anyone will get in or out of this fort without experiencing serious pain,” Sarge calls out proudly.

            Wash closes his eyes, biting his tongue on the curse that rises to it.

            “Traps aren’t really necessary, Sarge,” he groans.

            “What the fuck dude? How many times do we have to tell you, _we’re on the same team_?” Tucker adds, violet eyes wide in disgust and horror.  

            Sarge isn’t listening.

            “Hey Grif, howabout a midnight snack before bed? I know you love snacks,” he says sweetly.

            “R-really?”

            “Can I have one, too?” Caboose asks, leaning over the table “wall” of the fort.

            “No, get out of here, Blue,” Sarge barks, before turning back to Grif. “Right this way.”

            “Man, thanks, Sarge! Y’know, maybe this trip has been good for our team after all. It’s bringing us all tog—“

            Grif’s thought is cut off by an electric crackle as he steps through what used to be a teleporter frame. The soldier lights up blue. Wash isn’t sure if Sarge rigged it specifically to electrocute people who tried to step through it, or if it had just been broken that way to begin with. For a moment, Wash considers stepping in, but decides against it. If Grif hadn’t seen that coming, it’s his own fault.

            “Oooh, pretty!” Caboose says appreciatively.           

            Grif finally falls out of the frame, back into “Fort Red”. He crumples onto the ground with a hand over his heart, breathing heavily.

            “I…fucking…hate…you,” he wheezes.

            “God, you’re an idiot,” Simmons sighs, fanning at the tendrils of smoke that are rising from Grif’s slightly singed hair.

            “Good! It works! I needed a test dummy. Well, goodnight everyone! Sleep tight!” Sarge calls the last in a sickeningly cheerful voice.

            “We should all get some sleep. Lights out,” Wash says. He turns off the lights to emphasize his point and settles into his bedroll without another word.

 

            Wash lays awake for the next few hours. He’s used to not sleeping. He hasn’t really slept much since Epsilon was implanted. There’s only so much quieting down you can do with memories screaming in your head all the time. Currently, Wash’s mind spins with what little information he could glean from Florida’s datapad, the mysteries of the day, and the three haunting graves a few yards outside the base. What soldiers were buried with false names? Who had they been? What did they know? Did they even know they had died, or are they just waiting in the ether to wake up from whatever procedure Project Freelancer had claimed to be performing? And Flordia…what did he know about all of this? Did he know that he had a man with a false consciousness as a team member? How great was his role in this whole farce?

            Wash’s skin crawls at the thought, but he forces himself to lay still and breathe evenly. Years of pretending he didn’t know anything and lying to constant hidden cameras takes over. This is what Wash learned from Project Freelancer: Never show how much you know and never _ever_ let them know how much it affects you. Project Freelancer is always watching. Wash sends his senses out to check on his comrades: they’re all sleeping soundly and without fear. He sighs silently to himself, envying the team their peace.

 

            Wash has no way of knowing that Tucker isn’t sleeping in his cat-like curl. He’s staring into the cooking area, wondering what normal humans see in the dark. He keeps catching a violet flash of his own slightly luminescent eyes in the stainless steel cabinet. Normal humans don’t have glowing eyes or traces of blue and violet in their skin. At least, no normal humans that he’s met before. It’s not like he hasn’t had this thought before, millions of times. But this time, there’s something more at stake than the past of some street urchin. Tucker’s trying his best not to wonder if a normal human could have carried and birthed his kid. If he wonders whether that was possible, he might not like the answer. It might mean he was selected just to bring Junior into the world. And if that’s the case, then it might mean that the childcare program that was surprisingly willing to take a part alien child while Tucker finished out his contract might not be all that it seemed. What kind of life has he destined his kid to? It can’t be worse than abandoning him on some random spaceport without even _trying_ to find appropriate care for him, right? At least Junior knows who he is and where he came from, right? That has to be worth something. Tucker tries not to think about any of these things while his stomach clenches.

 

            Wash also has no idea that Simmons is burrowed deep under his blanket with the datapad on the lowest brightness setting so no one can see. For all intents and purposes, the maroon soldier is cocooned like normal, sleeping peacefully inside his protective shell. But Simmons is wide awake, carefully weaving his way through channels he barely remembers to find information about his family. Not much has changed. His father is immersed in his career. News archives show his mother stands beside his father, smiling silently for the cameras during Office banquets. Simmons locates contact information. His family has moved. Simmons prods at his feelings with the thought that his childhood home belongs to someone else, but gets no response. It’s hard to miss a childhood that was mostly schools and tutors. He returns to his father’s contact information and pulls an e-mail address. In the silence of his cocoon, Simmons pens several messages, only to erase them moments later. He closes his eyes and listens to the quiet whirring of his own internal mechanics. What would his father say about his cyborg form? How would he even explain half of the things that he’d seen and done? Would he regard Simmons as a hero? With a sickening start, Simmons realizes that his father would probably agree with the Director. Cold, calculating progress is the elder Simmons’s way of life. Simmons types two words on the message to his father and stares at them until they’re burned into his eyes. _You’re wrong_. His fingers don’t even come close to the “Send” button.

 

            Unbeknownst to everyone, including Wash, Grif stares at the ceiling without seeing it. He’s imagining being behind the wheel of his old car (his cousin had better be taking good care of it), whipping around the mountains. His palms itch for the torn and patched leather of his own steering wheel. His feet miss the feel of the clutch and gas pedals—he knew instinctively how much pressure to provide. He misses being under the hood of his own car, smelling oil and hearing the roar of his own engine. Wheelman. He would have taken that title with pride back home. Hell, if he’d thought if it, it’s what he would have called himself to the other racers and the rich kids he raced for. It sounds cool—professional, even. Grif has to stifle a sigh. He misses dodging boulders and other racers rather than bombs and bullets. How many times now has he had to drive for his (and everyone else’s) life? He imagines Kai’s annoyed face when he pulls into the garage, and tries not to imagine the lifestyle she grew into. It’s not his fault, right? Grif’s imaginary car makes the jump, but part of him wonders what would have happened if he’d fallen that day. Would Kai have ended up where she is now (Wherever that is?) It only slightly occurs to him that he can blame his mother for all of this. If only that bitch hadn’t joined the circus…

 

            Sarge appears to be asleep, but behind his eyelids, he’s replaying those last few moments. _“If you need to get out, do it. Call me when you’re safe and we’ll meet you”_ are the last words he spoke to his wife. She shouldn’t have gone in to work, but the hospital needed her. She was like that. If she’d stayed, he may have loved her a little less. If she’d stayed, she might be here with him. That would have been worth it, right?   
_“You have fought harder and done more than I ever thought I’d have to ask of you. I have always been proud of you, but today I am honored to call you my son, and this army is honored to have you as a soldier”_ are words spoken to his son the last time he was seen whole. Trent had filled with pride at the high praise. If he hadn’t said those things, would Trenton still be here? Would his son have hidden rather than fought if he hadn’t given him that confidence?  No, probably not. They were too much alike. How many hours had they spent tinkering in the garage, making little toys together? Trent’s room had been full of little crawling robot bugs. By the time he outgrew them, even his teddy bears had moving parts. Sarge thinks of the last thing they built together—no, not together. The robot he built in that garage. Not entirely unlike a UNSC Mantis. He knows why he’s here. The price isn’t worth it. Besides, here he is, thinking about Trent. Wasn’t the point not to think anymore? Just to fight and struggle and never think again? But here he is, thinking. His right hand reaches out to touch the shotgun that has not left his side since that day. If he hadn’t built that robot, would he be here? If he’d stayed on Reach, would it have been better? _If, if, if…_

 

            The only one sleeping as Washington imagines is Caboose. The blue soldier is stretched out, breathing deeply. Caboose sleeps silently, but whether his dreams are peaceful is unknown.

 

            For once, the Reds and Blues spend much of the night not wondering why they’re there, but wondering at what price.

 

            Carolina left coordinates for Wash. He hasn’t told any of the others this; he really isn’t in the mood to have his mission held up with another round of “What’s Washington’s Ulterior Motive?” He found the coordinates along with all of her other standard mission information in a datastick on top of his other belongings. He’s glad he didn’t have that conversation with her—he imagines her pale green eyes cold and hard as she hands him the datastick. Her words would be formal and forced and dripping with disappointment—something about how he might need her, or that she regrets his decision. Best case scenario, she would have shoved the datastick into his hands with a gruff “here” before striding away more quickly than need be.

            Fortunately, no one gathered around the table gives two shits about where Wash’s information came from. Wash almost wishes someone would. Any reaction is better than what he’s currently dealing with. Tucker and Grif both have their heads on the table. Tucker, at least, has his eyes open and is blinking slowly at Wash. Grif is making no effort to be awake whatsoever—a pool of drool is gathering under his cheek. Every few breaths he lets out a little snore. Simmons is sitting up, but he, too, is blinking sleepily. Wash isn’t sure if this is a team briefing or a high school History class—it’s hard to tell by the level of engagement.  

            “So what’s our plan, Wash?” Sarge asks—thankfully awake.

            “We fly in and approach with caution. This is one of Freelancer’s smaller safehouses, so it only has one entrance. I don’t imagine that it will be heavily guarded, but I want everyone armed and ready just in case,” Wash says, trying to ignore his sleeping soldiers.

            “And then we can ask the Director our questions?” Caboose asks.

            Wash looks at him. His face is serious, but not _too_ serious. He’s all Caboose right now. Probably.

            “Well, we’ll see if Carolina leaves us anything to ask. I should be able to access his files from the main console, though. That should tell us what we want to know,” Wash says.  

            “Sounds good to me. Let’s end this,” Sarge says, standing up. Wash stands, too.

            Simmons, Grif, and Tucker remain seated at the table. Tucker has given up trying to keep his eyes open. Simmons stares blankly into space.

            “Come on, it’s time to go,” Wash says, raising his voice. None of the soldiers move. He raps his knuckles on the table, but receives no response.

            “I said—“ Wash begins, but a loud gunshot cuts him off and makes his ears ring and his knees buckle. He’s half crouched in a defensive position before he realizes that the gunshot was fired by Sarge himself.

            “Jesus fucking Christ!” Tucker is on his feet, sword drawn. Simmons is crouched in a similar position to Wash. Grif has fallen onto the floor, where he lays on his back with his eyes wide open, a hand over his heart

            “Was that…really necessary…sir?” Grif pants.

            Sarge laughs as dust falls from the spray of holes in the ceiling.

            “Well, well, well, look who’s finally awake. It’s time to fly, boys,” he says. He grins at Wash with a twinkle in his grey eyes. “Aw, come on, Washington. You said I could break something. With any luck, the base is less structurally sound and it’ll be in shambles when we come back.”

            Sarge walks out of the room, laughing. Simmons pulls Grif to his feet and they follow, Grif still with a hand over his heart

            “Did you tell him he could break my ears? Because I think he broke my ears,” Tucker grumbles, deactivating his sword and following the Reds with hunched shoulders, rubbing at one ear.

            “Come on, Caboose. You okay?” Wash says, pausing as he realizes the blue soldier hasn’t moved. Caboose blinks a few times, then stands.

            “Yeah, I don’t know what just happened, but it wasn’t me. Tucker did it. Probably,” he says, then takes off after Tucker.

            Wash watches him go. Real or not real? It’s something to ponder on the flight to the safehouse.

 

            “It’s a small safehouse. It’s not heavily guarded. I’m Agent Washington, and I know jack _shit_ ,” Tucker mimics Wash’s briefing under his breath, voice a little higher than normal.  

            Wash can’t really blame him. Not only does the safehouse appear to be fairly well guarded, it’s being guarded by an army of _Tex_. Carolina is in the middle of them, fighting for her life. This is not what he had planned on. Oh well. That seems to be par for the course with this outfit.  

            “Okay, team. Get ready— _Grif where are you going?_ ” Wash’s voice cracks in dismay as he watches the orange soldier barrel back the way they came.

            “Grif! Get back here, you yellow bellied coward!” Sarge yells, successfully blowing their cover. Down on the floor, several of the Texes turn their heads up toward the previously unnoticed team, giving Carolina a bit of a break for a moment.  

            “God _dammit_ ,” Simmons groans.

            “Wash?” Carolina’s voice is disbelieving. “What are you doing here?”

            Grif or no Grif, it’s time to join back with his teammate.

            “Well, turns out we have some business here after all. Need a hand, boss?” Wash says lightly, jumping down to join her, taking out a few Texes on his way. The remaining reds and blues follow suit.

            “You guys aren’t mad?” Epsilon appears over Carolna’s shoulder.

            “Please, if we gave up every time you were an asshole, we would have gone home years ago,” Tucker says. Wash can hear the grin in his voice.

            All around them, images of Tex crack their necks and knuckles.

            “What a cliché show of aggression,” Simmons squeaks.

            “You guys ready?” Carolina asks, shifting into a fighting stance.

            _Do we have a choice?_ Wash thinks to himself, but before he can voice his sarcasm, there is a loud explosion as three balls of light shoot across the field of Texes.

            “Sup, bitches?” Grif says proudly, only slightly out of breath. Wash turns to see the orange soldier hefting—

            “Is that what I think it is?” Wash blurts.

            “Is that Maine’s brute shot?” Carolina asks, just as amazed.

            “I like to call it the Grif Shot. I was going to hang it over the couch back at base, but I figured it would come in handy here,” Grif replies.

            Tucker activates his sword.

            “Let’s do this, nerds,” he says.

           

            Wash can almost see his old team in this new one as they take on this enemy.

            Grif’s recklessness and Simmons’s calculated corrections could almost be South and North, but without the ruthlessness. Grif fires his “Grif Shot”, then swings the blade wildly through the robots. Simmons has picked up a rocket launcher and stays back near the wall, taking out the Texes that Grif misses.

            Tucker fights with York’s confidence and swagger, his energy sword flashing through the air. The turquoise soldier dances through the sea of black with a kind of lithe grace. When Tucker actually tries, he’s actually a decent fighter.

            Sarge fires his shotgun almost as fast as he fires off one-liners, his feet planted solidly on the ground. His gravely laugh echoes over the sounds of battle, reminding Wash of the countless missions that were peppered with Wyoming’s jokes over comm. Both men had a black sense of humor, delivering death with a chuckle.

            Caboose barrels through enemies with a little help from “Church”. His incredible strength allows him to crush the Texes’ helmets like soda cans with his fists. Maine used to do the same thing to the training robots, but with a far more grim attitude. Caboose, in stark contrast, is shouting gleefully as he mows down his enemies.

            Carolina…well…she’s as powerful as she ever was. She alternates between heavy-hitting kicks and pistol shots, fighting her way out of the middle of _hundreds_ of her greatest enemy. Wash has a sneaking suspicion that this is what Carolina always saw when she was training so hard back in the day.

 

            After moments or years (Wash isn’t sure which), the battle ends. Carolina looks at Wash.

            “Do what you need to do,” Wash says, nodding at her. His errand can wait.

            “Come on, Epsilon,” Carolina says quietly.

            Woman and AI disappear down a corridor. Wash turns to the others to start assessing medical needs, but he notices a blue figure stealing down the corridor after Carolina. _Caboose._

            Wash sighs. This is _not_ the time for sneaking around after Church. He’d better intercept Caboose before it’s too late. He doesn’t like to think of what could happen to Caboose if Carolina is caught by surprise during this errand.

            The corridor is long and sterile—it reminds Wash of the med bay corridors in some weird way. It’s just… _too_ clean, especially given the deteriorated state of this safehouse. Half of the lights are off, giving the whole place an eerie, tomb-like feel. The hairs on the back of Wash’s neck stand on end and he shudders.

            Caboose is standing to the side of a door on the right-hand side of the corridor. His helmet is in his hands and he’s staring at it. Wash stops before Caboose notices him. Faintly, he hears the Director’s voice, which makes his stomach lurch uncomfortably. Caboose’s head snaps up at the sound, his eyes wide. What did he hear? Wash takes a few steps closer. He can hear Epsilon and Carolina speaking to the Director now, but Caboose doesn’t seem to be listening. He’s mouthing something—Wash was never much good at reading lips, but he thinks he can figure out what Caboose heard.

 

            “ _Hello, Michael.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MILD CLIFFHANGER! :D 
> 
> This one is a little bit shorter, but next up is the chapter that started this whole fic, and it's going to be a doozy. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! Feel free to drop questions or comments here or on Tumblr~


	11. The Developer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo Twisted: Wish Granted. 
> 
> Seriously, this took me a million years to write and I'm still not sure if I'm happy with it. I tried something new with how I wanted to tell the story because, to be honest, Caboose's backstory is what started this whole fic off in my brain and even though this chapter alone is 12,000+ words, it's honestly pretty cut. There is SO MUCH MORE I want to shove into this story. It could be a fic all its own.

“Hello? Michael?” A hand waves in front of his face. Michael blinks rapidly, shaking his head.  

“What?” he asks.  

“I asked if you were ready for this,” Amelia repeats, her cheeks dimpling as she smiles at him. He knows she’s trying to be reassuring, but she keeps fidgeting with his hair, his tie, the collar of his shirt showing that his fiancé is just as nervous as he is.  

“Yeah, no problem,” Michael says out loud. “It’s just my doctoral speech. No big deal, right?”  

“It’s a huge deal! I heard someone in the lobby saying that _Doctor Halsey herself_ even came to hear your theories on SVI,” Amelia squeaks, bursting with pride. Her brown eyes widen as she realizes what she’s said. “I mean, yeah, no, it’s no big deal at all. Just another boring science lecture.”  

She’s still backpedaling when Michael laughs and draws her in for a kiss.  

“For good luck,” he murmurs, brushing her dark curls out of her face. Her smile is genuine as she straightens his tie one last time.  

On the brightly lit stage up the stairs to his right, Michael’s mentor is introducing him. He takes a deep breath and stands. Amelia dashes off to take her place in the audience. He’d told her she could stay backstage, but she wanted to “get the full effect” of his speech. He loves that about her—as an Earth History scholar, she has no idea what eighty-five percent of his work means, but she does her best to keep up and support him anyway. Her enthusiasm (and left over skill from her years as a barista) has gotten him through quite a few all-nighters.  

Michael grips the railing on the staircase. He knows his thesis forward and backward, but he’s still about to hyperventilate.  

“I am honored to turn over the stage to the newest graduate, Doctor Michael J. Caboose.”  

Michael climbs the stairs on numb legs to the applause of his former instructors and fellow scientists. One of these people are going to give him a job.  

Or possibly laugh him off the stage.  

One or the other.  

Michael sets his datapad down on the podium, looking out over the crowd. The bright lights make them mostly faceless, but he finds Amelia anyway.  

“Good evening. I’d like to thank Dr. Michel for that introduction. It has been a pleasure studying under him and the others at the UNSC University of Science and Technology. I look forward to presenting my work to you today. But, I’m afraid I can’t do it alone. I’d like to introduce you to my very good friend and partner in this project, Sheila,” Michael says, pressing a few buttons on his datapad. On cue, a hologram of a woman in a dazzling blue evening gown materializes next to him.  

“Hello!” She says in a bright, confident voice, smiling at the crowd.. “My name is Sheila. I’m pleased to meet all of you.” 

“Sheila walks, talks, thinks, imagines, and creates, just as you would expect of a true Artificial Intelligence unit. I asked her to choose a dress for this occasion. I did not program this one for her,” Michael says.  

“Did I choose the right dress, Michael?” Sheila asks, giving a little twirl. The audience chuckles. Michael smiles at her.  

“Stop showing off, Sheila,” he reprimands lightly. She gives him a secretive smile. In truth, he has instructed her to show off a little.  

“As you can see,” Michael continues, “Sheila has a personality all her own. She has the capacity to assist me in a wide variety of projects, from cooking supper to working in the labs. For all intents and purposes, Sheila appears to be a Smart AI unit. In my thesis, I cite several instances in which we put Sheila to work against or in partnership with actual Smart AI units, courtesy of Dr. Halsey’s research team. In 87 out of 100 experiments, Sheila was not only able to keep pace with the other units, but to convince them that she, too, was one of them. However, Sheila is one hundred percent artificial. I propose that there may be an alternative to the dangerous process of creating Smart AI based on the cloning or destruction of actual human brain tissue. By studying and replicating the “starting points” of an infant’s mind and programming developmental rules, I assert that we can create virtual intelligence that is programmed for one purpose, to develop and grow up into an AI unit like Sheila.”  

Michael pauses to let the scientists process this information. He glances at Sheila, who is smiling and waving at various members of the audience. He finds Amelia’s beaming face in the second row. His nerves are gone. The proof is standing in all her glittering blue glory next to him. The rest of his speech is going to be easy.  

   
 

“Sheeeeeila!” Michael calls out, dropping to one knee and holding out his arms. His tie is untied, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. “Marry me, Sheila!”  

“Michael, body scans indicate that you have ingested a large amount of alcohol. Even if it were possible for man to marry machine, I would have to decline your proposal as it is likely based in consumption. Also, your actual fiancé would likely have me deleted out of jealousy,” Sheila says. She’s not in holographic form anymore. Her voice comes from the ceiling, though her form smiles at him from a screen on the wall.  

The other guests at Michael’s graduation party laugh heartily. Amelia attempts to wrestle Michael into a chair.  

“Don’t worry about it, Sheila. I knew I’d have to share him with you the moment you were created,” Amelia says, half in response to Sheila, half in response to the jeers from the party guests.  

“Amelia! Isn’t this party _fun_?” Michael says, grinning broadly. “Do you want to dance? We should dance. It’ll be so much fun! This is such a good song!”  

“Good _God_ you’re drunk!” Amelia laughs.  

“Yeah. I am,” Michael agrees, nodding. He tries to kiss her and misses, succeeding only in knocking a glass off the table. “Not my fault! Not my fault!”  

“Is this a bad time?” a deep, southern voice drawls. Amelia turns to see a man in a black suit and thick glasses looking at them with his hands behind his back.  

“Um, I don’t think you’ll get anything coherent out of him right now,” Amelia says.   

She has to force herself to keep the relaxed smile on her face. For some reason, this man makes her nervous. She puts her hand on Michael’s shoulder protectively. He leans his head into her arm and nuzzles it, making happy noises. The man smiles at them, which does nothing for Amelia’s distrust. There’s nothing warm about that smile.  

“Could you give him my card, when he’s sobered up? I find his work fascinating. I think I have an offer he’ll be very interested in,” the man says.  

“Oh my god, is that Dr. Church?” Michael leans forward suddenly, squinting at the solemn man. Again, the cold smile.  

“You recognize me,” he says, sounding vaguely pleased.  

“Amelia, look, he’s a—“ Michael struggles to focus. “He makes stuff. He does cool things, like me. I like him.”  

“Give me a call when you’re ready to talk,” Dr. Church says, handing Michael a business card.  

“I will...do that...thing you just said, Dr. Mr. Church,” Michael says, trying his best for a serious voice. His blue eyes search all around, as if he's trying to find Dr. Church. 

Dr. Church laughs. Amelia thinks he might actually be amused.  

“Congratulations, by the way,” the man says, before walking away.  

“Oh man, that was Dr. Church!” Michael says to Amelia, holding up the business card and waving it in her face.  

“I’m going to take that for safekeeping,” Amelia says, extracting the card from Michael’s fingers. She looks down at the thick white card with the words PROJECT FREELANCER, Dr. Leonard Church, and a phone number imprinted in a serif but otherwise plain font. The hair on her forearms stands on end as she slips the card into the back pocket of her jeans. For some reason, she has a bad feeling about the card and the man who handed it to the man she loves.  

   
 

The next week is filled with interviews for Michael. The University wants him to stay on with their research division, and maybe teach a few programming classes. Several corporations want him to head various projects, update their programs with his tech, or mass produce Sheila. Most of these he turns down quickly. And oh, the military offers. ONI wants him, Weapons Development wants him, Engineering and Navigation wants him….the emails are never-ending.  

“Okay, maybe being a success isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Michael mutters, powering down his datapad and scrubbing at his eyes with both hands. “What do you think, Sheila? Anything sound interesting?”  

“I’ve noticed you have made several contacts, but you never reached out to Dr. Church,” Sheila points out.  

“Who?” Michael looks up at the screen, blinking. “You don’t mean _the_ Dr. Church, do you? Why would I reach out to him?”  

“You don’t remember? He came to your congratulatory party and gave you his business card. You were very excited at the time. Of course, you were also extremely intoxicated, which may account for your failure to retain this information,” Sheila says with a smile.  

“Thanks for the reminder,” Michael replies flatly. He’s still pretty sure he lost some brain cells during that party—if the hangover afterward had been any indication.  

“You are welcome,” Sheila replies.  

Michael shifts through papers and cards on his desk. None of them are from Dr. Church. He checks through his e-mails, just in case. Nothing.  

“Are you sure it was Dr. Church? I feel like I’d remember that, even if I was tanked,” Michael says, opening drawers.  

“Oh my god, is that Dr. Church?” Michael looks up at the sound of his own slurred voice. He winces, seeing his own drunken self, flailing wildly on the screen. A figure he’s only ever seen at a distance smiles down at him.  

“You recognize me,” the figure replies.  

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Michael says in the now. The video disappears from the screen to be replaced with Sheila’s smug smile.  

“Do you know what I did with his card, if you bothered to record that?” Michael asks.  

“Amelia took it,” Sheila replies.  

Michael stops shuffling through everything.  

“Why didn’t you say that before?” he asks.  

“You seemed more concerned with whether or not I was lying about Dr. Church. I did not think the location of the business card was the most important information to you,” Sheila says, virtual voice dripping with innocence.  

Michael drops everything he’s holding onto his desk with a sigh.  

“Next time I make one of you, remind me to check the sass variables,” he says.  

“Reminder saved,” Sheila says sweetly.  

Michael walks out of his office and into the sitting room to find Amelia draped over a chair, reading a book. He smiles for a moment at the sight. It surprised him at first, when she moved in with several heavy boxes of old, bulky books made of actual paper and glue. No one read books made of paper anymore; it was highly inconvenient. You could only carry a few at a time, and they took up so much space. Plus, if you needed a word defined or a fact checked, you either had to go get a different book or go boot up your datapad just to look it up. But that’s just part of who Amelia is—she’s truly dedicated to preserving some of the old customs of humanity as they’d been on Earth—the original one.  

“Hey, Amelia, do you know what happened to Dr. Church’s business card?” he asks. “Sheila says you took it the night of the party.”  

“Yeah, I figured you’d lose it, in the state you were in,” Amelia puts a finger in her book and looks up at Michael. “It’s on my dresser.”  

“Thanks,” Michael says. He leans down to kiss her forehead before starting toward the bedroom. Amelia grabs his arm.  

“Hey, you’re not considering working with that guy, are you?” she asks, eyebrows coming together in a concerned frown.  

“I don’t know. I’ve always been interested in his work,” Michael says. “Why?”  

Amelia takes a breath to respond, but in all honesty, she doesn’t have a good reason for it. Something about the man...the deep frown lines on his face, maybe? His cold eyes? _Something_ just felt _off_. She looks up into Michael’s face. His face is open, listening, waiting.  

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Amelia admits finally. “I just have a bad feeling about him.”  

Michael smiles and strokes her hair.  

“I’ll keep my eyes open,” he says. “Don’t worry.”  

   
 

In fact, Michael’s eyes are wide open as he arrives for his interview.  

“This is the first interview I’ve ever been to on a spaceship,” he murmurs.  

“The nature of this interview may indicate that the interviewers are trying a “shock and awe” tactic,” Sheila comments. Michael looks down at his watch, where her face frowns up at him.  

“Isn’t that pretty standard?” he asks.  

“Perhaps. Be on your guard. Records—or the lack thereof—insinuate that the _UNSC Mother of Invention_ may not be all that it seems,” Sheila replies.  

Michael takes a deep breath and rolls back his shoulders. He walks toward the airlock, looking up at the vast spaceship. The _Mother of Invention_. He smiles to himself. Necessity.  

Michael is stopped at the first door by a pair of armored guards.  

“Hi, uh, I'm Dr. Michael Caboose I’m here to--” he starts, but is waved inside. “Thanks.”  

Michael walks through the door and is practically catapulted from corridor to corridor by several sets of guards after giving his name. He prays that Sheila has kept track of the way they’ve came. He’s never getting out of here on his own. He comes through the most recent set of doors and into what appears to be a control room. Dr. Church is standing at the glass. He and the shorter man next to him wear grey military suits. Two women and a man wear lab coats and are toggling switches and buttons on various panels.  

Michael approaches cautiously.  

“Uh, Dr. Church?” he says, trying not to stutter. Dr. Church turns his head slightly in Michael’s direction. Michael straightens and holds out his hand for a shake. Dr. Church does not take his hand, but motions for Michael to look through the window. Michael steps up next to the shorter man, who gives him a calm smile.  

“These are some of the UNSC’s finest operatives,” Dr. Church says. “Watch.” 

Michael looks down into the room below—it’s a large, flat area meant to be a training room. Eight fully armed soldiers run an obstacle course that is constantly changing—an agent in turquoise armor changes a simple jump to a tuck and roll as the platform they’re aiming for vanishes beneath them. Another agent in bright green and orange armor is suddenly plunged into a deep well as the floor opens up beneath them. They pop back out a moment later, bursting up from the far side of the opening to leap up and continue running.  

It’s all pretty interesting, but Michael has no idea what he’s supposed to be watching for. Isn’t he supposed to be here for an interview? But then he notices it. A flicker of movement here, an impossible jump there.  

“They’re using armor enhancements,” he muses. “Is that what you’re working on here?”  

“Very good,” Dr. Church says, but does not say anything further.  

Perplexed, Michael turns his attention back toward the scene below. What else? What’s Dr. Church looking for? 

“They don’t appear to use their enhancements often. Like, oh, there! The one in the red should have used their speed boost longer to make it out of that gauntlet. Why would they stop?” Michael says, observing out loud.  

“The users are unassisted,” Sheila remarks casually.  

“What?” Michael looks down at his watch.  

“The soldiers are unable to use their enhancements without the assistance of an AI unit to make the necessary calculations and run the programs. Doing so unassisted takes too much of the user’s focus away from the task at hand and puts them at risk,” Sheila says.  

“Why does she know that?” Dr. Church demands, turning to face Michael fully.  

Michael’s palms start to sweat, but he stands straighter. He’s at least four inches taller than Dr. Church.  

“You asked me to bring Sheila. I assumed part of this interview was determining her strengths as an SVI as proof of concept. I’ve made no effort to keep her from observing anything. What I see, she sees,” Michael says.  

“Sheila, what do you think of our training room?” Dr. Church asks.  

“Michael?” Sheila asks in return. Michael smiles.  

“Don’t worry, Sheila. Be honest,” he replies.  

“While the general structure of the room seems good, would it not be better to have a proactive system rather than a reactive one? Humans toggling the controls of the variables does allow for human speculation to receive an answer to its own question. But rather than watching and reacting to current behavior, or controlling the situations based on previous data, it would be better suited to a system that could provide realtime variables based on current behavior of the subjects,” Sheila says. “Oops. I mean the soldiers.”  

“Thank you, Sheila,” Michael says. He _really_ should have turned down her personality. While her black humor has gotten him through a lot of long nights in graduate school, it may not be so appropriate here. But Michael’s audience seems amused.  

“Interesting. Did you intend to come here to sell me your SVI?” Dr. Church flashes a smile.  

“No I didn’t. And I wouldn’t. I might be open to commission, though, if this interview goes well,” Michael replies.  

“Then by all means, let us commence,” Dr. Church says.  

   
 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Amelia’s arms are crossed over her chest.  

“It’s a really good opportunity with a project that’s moving forward full-tilt,” Michael replies apologetically. “It will be huge for my career _and_ for my research.”  

“Uh huh.” Amelia does not sound impressed.  

“I get to work with a full AI unit alongside SVI. _Plus_ I’m getting a full commission for creating an SVI like Sheila for Dr. Church himself.” He throws the good things about this contract out on the table like a well planned meal, but Amelia isn’t biting. She moves forward, flinging her left hand up into his face. He jerks his head back before he realizes she’s not going to smack him. She holds her hand rigid, displaying the white gold and sapphire ring on her ring finger. Michael starts to deflate before Amelia even begins to speak.  

“And what about this?” she asks.  

Michael takes her hand, closing his eyes as he brings it to his lips and kisses her fingers. Amelia doesn’t pull away, though the hurt in her face suggests she might.  

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to her fingers. “I want to give us the best possible start. This contract is only for two years and it will pay off all of the loans I took out for my PhD and then some. We can start out debt free. I’ll be able to get a good job easily and support your trips around the galaxy to go on digs and studies.”  

He opens his eyes to find Amelia giving him a soft smile.  

“For a science nerd, you really are a dreamer, Michael,” she says, moving to slide her arms around his neck. She nuzzles his face.  

“You do know I’d rather have the crippling debt, the tiny apartment and all of the arguments it brings, and a couple of missed opportunities just to have my _husband_ home with me, right?” she asks.  

“I know. Two years, and I’m all yours. It’ll fly by. Promise,” Michael replies, burying his nose in her hair and putting his arms around her waist. He inhales her scent—coconut oil shampoo and..whatever that fabric softener is she uses that he loves. He really needs to remember to ask her what it is. Suddenly, two years seems like a much longer time than it did in Dr. Church’s office.  

   
 

 _April 10_ _th_  

My dearest Amelia,  

I hope our message got to you all right. They scanned us pretty good to make sure we wouldn’t be smuggling anything in or out, but Sheila’s smarter than them. Don’t forget the password, all right? Orange, Monkey, Eagle. That will let Sheila know to let you in. I mean, she _knows_ you, but you know what I mean. This is safe. I don’t think I could live two years without talking to you. Hopefully we can open a channel and holo chat soon. I’ll let you know when I can.  

I miss you already. Have I really only been gone for three days?  

It seems like longer.  

So far, I’ve just been getting settled in. This ship is huge. I keep getting kind of lost. Sheila knows her way around, though, so as long as I can keep her whispering in my ear, it’s fine. My lab is huge—yeah, you read that right. I get my own lab. I feel like a real scientist now.  

I got to meet some of the other scientists and the agents. Everyone here has code names. It’s kind of cool. All of the agents are named after states from the United States of America from back on Earth. I guess I’ll finally have to learn all of them. You’ll be so proud. Dr. Church is the Director...sounds kind of sinister to me. Mr. Price—the guy that works with him—is known as the Counselor. I don’t know about him yet. He sort of gives me the creeps. Every time I talk to him, I feel like he’s psychoanalyzing me. I guess that’s what he does around here. Because UNSC special ops agents need therapy, or whatever.  

Actually, you know what? They probably do.  

I don’t know what my code name is going to be yet. I wonder if I can choose. I want to be something cool like First Class Space Inventor. Or Professor X. What do you think?  

Tomorrow I’ll be briefed on the progress of their project thus far. I’ll get to meet their AI unit, too, which I’m excited about. AI are so cool...I’ve been studying them for years and I’m still not over how amazing it is that we can recreate a human brain like that. 

I’m still not sure what they’re working on. I assume it will be something I can help with; the _Director_ insinuated that it would have something to do with the work I did mapping neural pathways to get all the pipes laid for Sheila to grow up.  

I hope everything’s going well for you.  

If you talk to the family, tell my sisters I said hey. Except Emma. Tell her she smells. 

I love you. I can’t wait to talk to you. I miss your voice. And your face. And everything else about you.  

Yours forever,  

Michael  

   
 

 _April 13_   

Amelia my sweet,  

Did you get the dishwasher fixed? I’m really sorry about that. I thought programming the dishwasher to put away the dishes would be a good surprise for you. I mean, it probably would have been if it hadn’t malfunctioned. Did I mention I that I’m sorry?  

If nothing else, you can take the first paycheck and get a new one that isn’t sentient. If that happens, tell Ronald I’m sorry I didn’t get all his bugs worked out. He did give me trouble. 

Yes, his name is Ronald. He is a friend.  

Stop laughing at me.  

(I may have told you all of that just to make you laugh. I miss your laugh.)  

So, I met Alpha. For an AI, he’s kind of a jerk. He sounds like some of the freshman I taught during my grad studies. It’s hard to believe he’s a scan of the Director’s own brain, but that’s what they say. Maybe that’s just the way he was when he was younger. If that’s the case, remind me never to grow up and become a stick in the mud.  

I’m still wrapping my head around the project. Generally, AI like Alpha are meant to control things like the large cruiser itself or a military base. They’re used to run strategy and keep everything running at optimum efficiency. However, after the whole incident with the Master Chief working one-on-one with Cortana, the Director is very interested in the assistance a smart AI like that could provide to his special agents in the field. It’s a common fact that AI or VI assistance is usually required to help a soldier with any special equipment or armor enhancements—our minds aren’t strong enough to think about an enhanced body—we’re bound by the limits of our own selves, more or less. It’s also pretty impossible to run the calculations needed for some of the enhancements they want to use. I watched a video of an agent who tried to use a force field and ended up cutting off his own air supply in a misguided attempt to hold the shield solid long enough to sustain fire. It was not pretty.  

The tests they want to run have a bunch of layers—they’re testing various effects of AI on a team of soldiers. But what they really want to do is test the amount of improvement a soldier will show in combat if the smart AI is inserted directly into their own neural pathway. Not into a suit of armor, but _actually into their head_.  

That’s what they want me for. I guess I’m one of the only people who has spent so much time researching the human mind and neural pathways AND the AI’s neural pathways. I’m more or less the missing link between the two.  

Whew. I needed a new paragraph after all of that. It’s a huge undertaking. I would be looking at essentially installing a program more complex than even Sheila into the single most complex program in existence—the human brain. I don’t even know if it’s possible.  

On the slightly less intriguing side, they also want my assistance in cloning Alpha. I don’t think that’s physically possible. I’ll look into it more, though. Maybe I’ll find something everyone else missed while I’m working mapping everything out. This will be my first time exploring a code as intricate as Alpha’s. Who knows!  

When I’m done here, I’ll probably be so much smarter, I can program the dishwasher to clean, dry, put away, and even set the table if you want. If you ever let me touch kitchen appliances again, that is.  

Speaking of which, it’s time for dinner. I’m not used to running on a military schedule. Or any schedule. Having specific times to get up, eat meals, use the shower...it’s a mad world up here, babe. I hope I survive the military.  

I love you with all my heart.  

Michael 

P.S. So um. In case you haven’t done the laundry yet, I may have tried to program the dryer to fold laundry when it’s done and press things that need pressing. Just FYI. It should work though. The dryer is way less finicky than the dishwasher anyway. Please don’t hate me.  

P.P.S. Her name is Molly. The dryer.  

   
 

 _April 29_ _th_  

To My Favrite Amelia Ever Of All Time!!! 

Hi!!!! How are you???  

I got too spind time with theeee agents today. They ar so nce. Ud lik them. Got to meet Ohi-O, Minsoda, and somebody else. The virgin one. Him. Did some stuff the thing where I looked at brains on the computer. They worked out and I computered.  

We had fun!!!!!!!!!!!! 

Then Minasoda invtd me to her room BUT NOT LIKE THAT. JUST as friends. The other people were there too. We had drinks! I taught htem asbout science and computer stuff. They like me.  

Arnt you proud I’m making so many friends? Pls invite them to the wedding??? I told them they cold come.  

They live at rooms 303A, 122A, and 56B, Spaceship, outer space. Virgin guy needs a +1 because he has a wifi already.  

Tmorow ima do virtual testing. But im really sleepy right now. I should go to bed.  

I love you soooooooooooooooooooooooooo much More than space. And cookies. And cheese. All of it. You’re the best one. I like how I saw your face last wek. Its a nice face. 

XXXXOOOOO 

Michael J Cabosee 

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 _April 30_  

A,  

I am so, so sorry about last night. Minnie had _something_ delicious that was purple and shiny. I don't know what it was, but it hit me a lot harder than I was expecting.  

Today has not been fun, but I got through it.  

I am in so much pain, and I know you probably wish you could inflict more on me after that monstrosity I sent to you.  

Gotta run; don’t have a lot of time.  

Once again: so, so, sorry.  

All of my love,  

M 

   
 

 _June 22_  

Amelia!  

I’m glad we’ve had more time to holo-chat while Alpha’s been busy helping the Director with their...personal...project? Or whatever they’re doing.  

Do you like the clip I sent you? Meet Sheila’s twin sister, FILSS! It’s pronounced like Phyllis. They wouldn’t let me give her a normal name because _apparently_ this is a serious military operation. I got away with FILSS because it stands for Freelancer Integrated Logistics and Security System. The director wants her in place before we start any real work with Alpha. Apparently, someone still needs to do the mundane tasks like running the ship and developing training simulations for the agents.  

Don’t worry; I’m still trusting my instincts like we discussed. I can unlock Sheila within FILSS if I need to _That was my idea_ Yes, Sheila, I am aware. If you're going to interject, please use a new line.  

 _Noted._  

Thank you.  

 The good thing about essentially programming this whole thing is that I have to be connected to literally everything.  

 _We._  

Yes, sorry, We have to be connected.  

I don’t know why I have this feeling. I mean, the Director and co. are dedicated to protecting humanity and making sure nothing like Reach ever happens again. They’re the good guys...right? Why do I have such a bad feeling about all of this?  

I’m glad I have you to talk to about this. Don’t know what I’d do on my own.  

All of my love, and then some,  

Michael 

 

 _June 25_  

A,  

You were right. I _really_ need to turn down the sass. And probably stop letting my VI learn curse words.  

Everything’s fine; FILSS just argued that a drill would have gone better if “Agent Louisiana would stop being such a pussy”.  

 _Why_ do I like such sassy ladies?  

I blame you.  

<3 

M 

   
 

 _July 15_  

Good morning my love!  

It’s been crazy around here. Testing has really kicked off. I’ve finally got enough data from various agents in both resting, combative, and problem solving situations to start mapping out where we want to install the AI.  

It’s a complicated procedure. We need the AI to have access to specific parts of the agent’s brain and vice versa, but not all of it—that would overload both of them. It’s finding that delicate balance that’s the trick.  

It's getting really technical... any updates on the project right now are going to be math equations and coding. I know how much you love reading about that.  

     I hope everything is going well back home. How are my sisters doing? Is Macie's leg healed up yet? It really sucks about the dance recital. I miss everyone so much.  

Especially you.  

     Always yours, 

Michael 

 

 _September 22_  

Dear Amelia,  

...that felt weird. But I'm too exhausted to come up with something clever. Clever has left the building.  

We're getting Alpha ready for the possibility of insertion. One of the things we need to do is make sure he's ready for the transition between non corporeal hologram and physical body. We installed him into a suit of armor filled with a robot today. He really seemed to have fun. He adjusted very quickly to having a real body. He was able to complete all the commands we gave him. They were pretty simple hand-eye coordination tests... we had him jump, run, stand on one leg. But then he also started figuring out the functionality of the suit of armor the robot body was wearing. We told him to jump; he activated the boost. We told him to run; he activated speed. He could do all the calculations and make his move in the blink of an eye. 

The smug bastard knew it, too. He kept saying things like "Yeah? Watch this, losers!" Before excelling at some simple task.   

He struggled more with letting _us_ control the body. He decided he knew better than we did and would take full control. We'd say go left in a maze and he'd go right. _We_ knew we were making the wrong choice. Alpha is supposed to _inform_ the agent that they're going the wrong way. Instead, he'd just take over and correct course himself. When we asked him about it or reprimanded him, his response was that every second counts in the field and his methods were faster.  

While he's not wrong, that's a dangerous thought process to have for an AI that they want to install in a human brain. I'm a little worried.  

I'm more worried that the Director didn't seem concerned about it. He almost seemed _pleased_. But then again, he has an appreciation for progress and efficiency.  

We're partnering him in a suit with an agent tomorrow. I have no idea why. I think we need more time in the robot, but the Director and Counselor have decided that Alpha's acting like this because he's bored. I hope it's as simple as that. Sheila is keeping an eye on him for me. I'll get an alert if we start to lose too much control.  

 

I think... every day I see that much more that you were right. I shouldn't have taken this job.  

I may have the PhD, but you're definitely the smart one. Just one tiny reason among millions why I love you.  

Always yours,  

Michael 

P.S. I did read your paper! It was really interesting. No, really! It's fascinating how French authors through the ages tracked the changes to Paris from the 1200s up until its total destruction, and how that's going to help your team's dig. I hope you have a good time on the dig.  

 

 _October 3rd_  

To my favorite Amelia in this or any other universe,  

Imagine me coming home and just flopping out on the couch. (you still have my couch, right? I know you hated it...I'm going to be sad if it's gone. Sad...but not surprised.) It has been a very long bunch of days. I've spent many of them chasing and locating Alpha. And then trying to catch him. Do you know how hard it is to catch an AI unit?  

Okay, I'll start at the beginning.   

We paired Alpha with an agent via armor plugins. Agent Wisconsin seemed like a good match. She's pretty laid back, but very precise. We figured she'd be able to handle Alpha's insistence and satisfy his need to be absolutely perfect.  

It worked, for a while. We had Wisconsin run laps, first at normal speed, then working with Alpha to gradually accelerate to specific kpH using the speed unit. They met each goal flawlessly. We finished that experiment by having Alpha accelerate Wisconsin to the top speed her body can handle with the suit and speed unit included. He had to take her limits into consideration to complete this. That's where we started to lose him.  

Alpha was doing fine. He was focused. But we lost contact with Wisconsin. She was unresponsive when we checked in with her. Alpha started responding for her; when we spoke to him, Wisconsin turned her head in our direction. Alpha was somehow able to hijack the link between the agent and her armor to take full control of her. It was like she was possessed.  

See, most of the SPARTAN style armor suits link in to the agent's vitals and nervous system. This is generally used to keep track of how the agent is doing in the field. Command or field medics are able to keep an eye on vitals and assess missions based on mental response. Alpha was able to use this link to take over her body as well as her suit.  

 _I tried to tell you something was wrong_  

You did. But it happened pretty fast.  

 _It wasn't that fast._  

Fast for a human. Anyway.  

Once we figured it out, we stopped the experiment immediately. The Director told Alpha to back out and give Wisconsin control. Here's the thing. _Alpha had no idea he was doing it._ He responded by lifting up his/her hands and looking at them. Then, through her comm, his voice exclaimed "Oh, this is cool!"  

This is cool.  

I don't know why, but I don't like that response.  

Then Alpha took over the experiment.  

We had a couple of other agents nearby for a later hand-to-hand combat experiment. Suddenly, Wisconsin was staggering backward with her hand on her helmet, and one of the other agents suddenly went rigid, then lifted his hands.  

Alpha's voice came through _that guy's_ comm:  

"Hey, now I'm this guy! This is awesome! I can be anyone wearing armor! I'm like a ghost!"  

I've never seen anything like this. All I could do is watch as Alpha jumped to the next guy. He started laughing as soon as he did it.  

"Boo, motherfucker! I wonder what else I can do!"  

Then he was gone.  

I looked over at the Director and the man was white as a ghost himself. He'd taken off his glasses and honestly, I don't know what they're made of. As hard has he was gripping them, they should have been crushed. He looked at me, shaking with rage, and demanded that I immediately find him. Apparently, I'm the expert, so I have to play hide and seek with this AI.  

The Counselor looked back and forth between us. Usually, he tries to step in whenever the Director's temper gets out of hand, but this time, he didn't know what to say, either.  

The Director stormed off. I grabbed the Counselor before he could follow; as much as the guy creeps me out, I needed his help. I told him I needed behavior profiles of everyone on the ship so we could figure out who was acting out of character. I also needed him to round up anyone currently suited up.  

Surprise: the Counselor did what I asked. Amazing, right?  

After we got everyone together, my next job was trapping Alpha. I could not figure out how he was transferring between agents. We hard link him in via chip.  

Want to take a guess how he did it?  

 _It was the radios._   

Thank you, Sheila. Was actually talking to Amelia but... 

 _Well, you didn't figure it out. I did._  

Thanks.  

 _Am I_ _embarrassing_ _you?_  

No, no. Just...y'know... 

 _Passing yourself as the hero._  

Okay fine.  

So Sheila figured out that Alpha was able to follow the radio link between everyone's' suits. As we ruled out who was affected and who wasn't, we had agents turn off their radios and take off their helmets. We got alpha backed into one agent's suit, then extracted him.  

The following meeting ensued.  

The Director wants to make sure I can keep Alpha contained.  

I think he'll be better contained when we perfect the insertion into the actual human mind. There won't be an actual suit that's basically connected to the "company network" to travel through until the agent gets suited up. One of our goals is to pair the agent with the AI completely; we're basically artificially creating soul mates, here. However, I have my doubts that Alpha is the most stable unit for this project. He seems too...well, too much like the Director. Ambitious, arrogant, … I can't think of another "A" word. But I don't know. There's something  _off_ , too. He's not stable in his own mind.  

Unfortunately, the Director is unable to procure another. We're allowed this _one_. And thus, we're pushing forward with this one. Quitting isn't an option.  

I think...I think the Counselor agrees with me, but he won't come right out and say it. It's just something about the way he kept looking over at me with his creepy complacent face. It looked like he was approving of my arguments. His input was pretty much vague bullshit. He's kind of a yes-man.  

Sheila and I are working on stabilizing further testing environments to prevent this kind of disaster. Yeah, it's considered a disaster.  

We had to pull several agents form their duties during the round up. We put the radio offline for about two hours. We had to temporarily disable the...well, basically the wifi for the whole spaceship for a while. We were sitting ducks in space because Alpha got loose.  

So yeah. That's my job right now. Preventing _that_ from happening again.  

I wish you were here. You're good stress relief. And boy do I need that.  

I love you the most.  

Michael  

 

 _October 14_ _th_  

Hello my lovely,  

Experiments have gone pretty well. We basically set up a very carefully monitored private system for agents working with Alpha to run on so even if he tries, he doesn’t have anywhere to go.  

The Director wants to move forward with inserting Alpha into an agent's actual brain. That's the good news, I guess. He's pleased with the progress of the experiment thus far. So therefore, he's pleased with my work. Which is good.  

The bad news is, we've hit another roadblock.  

The Director doesn't want to use an agent—Alpha's full takeover of Wisconsin was one way. She didn't remember anything about her time as Alpha. But we've discussed it... 

Exhaustively.  

And when we "install" (for lack of a better term) Alpha, it's going to be more of a...symbiotic relationship. While the AI will only have limited access to certain parts of the agent's brain and actual functionality, they will be in the same conscious space. You can't really do something like this without sharing _everything_. At least during the preliminary adjustment phase. It's like pouring two liquids that repel each other into one glass. For a few minutes, they'll mix, but then they'll separate back out to be their own unique minds in one space.  

The Director doesn't like the idea of his agents sharing a brain with his Alpha for any amount of time. So we're sort of at an impasse. I guess there are a couple of agents who may fit the bill.  

In the meantime, I get to hang out a little bit and figure out whether I can   
maybe keep parts of Alpha separate. Which means I'll have spare time for maybe a holodate? Please?  

 I miss you.  

Your Michael  

 

 _October 20_ _th_  

My Dearest Amelia,  

I'm glad I got to see your face.  

So glad.  

Like the calm before the storm.  

We figured out the solution to the next step. Me. I'm the solution. Sheila and our team are going to install Alpha in me.  

I know. Believe me, I know.  

I know this is a terrible idea. I just...don't know what else to do.  

It's not final yet, but we're talking about it.  

I'll let you know what happens.  

I love you.  

Michael.  

 

 _October 30_ _th_  

My beloved Amelia,  

      It's go time. I'm going under the knife tomorrow. Halloween, I know.  

I'm so sorry. I know you hate this. I'm actually kind of terrified.  

But at the same time...Amelia, think about it! I'm going to be the first person to be essentially mind melded with a true AI unit. I'm going to learn so much about their nature.  

I'm never ever going to sleep tonight. 

I'm going to be fine, though. Don't worry too much, okay?  

I'll see you on the other side.  

I love you; I think about you every single day, and I'll think about you the whole time I'm doing this (probably really dumb) thing I'm about to do.  

<3 <3 <3  

Your Michael  

 

 _November 1_  

A,  

I'm ok.  

Mostly.  

Bad idea.  

Can't see. Or talk. Head hurts so bad. 

So loud.   

I'm ok.  

Love you.  

 

 _November 5_  

Dear Amelia,  

I did get all of your messages. I'm so, so sorry. I'm okay, I promise. I just had a really bad migraine from the whole experience. It still comes and goes. Don't worry; I'm getting good medical care here.  

Remember how I theorized that Alpha wasn't stable? I'm more right than I knew.  

He freaked out when we started connecting. There's a learning curve to learning how much to give and take. I theorized that the two minds would become one, then be able to separate back into two, remember? Alpha reacted badly to that. He knew what was going to happen, but hearing about and feeling it are two different things.  

I don't remember everything. Just the flood of information when we connected, fear of discovery, then this girl's face and a feeling of the deepest despair I've ever felt. It's what I remember when my dad died when I was a kid. That feeling of hopelessness and lostness and sadness. I guess it's someone from his past that he lost somehow? I don't know. I haven't asked. I mean, the way Alpha reacted when that happened was bad enough. He started trying to pull back. _Hard._ It was like someone was trying to tear my brain apart. I just heard this awful screaming. I guess part of it was me. According to the video Sheila showed me, anyway.  

Long story short...we went crazy. He had a full panic episode inside my brain.  

Now I'm just angry. They allowed me to insert a broken mind into my own mind.  

You can't _do that_ with a mind that's so traumatized. This is information I needed before I did any of this. I _know_ "The Counselor" knew. That's his _job_. It's in the name. And no one told me.  

I'm sorry...I'm kind of a mess right now. It's like all my emotions are scrambled... 

Sheila isn't talking to me much. She's too loyal to you. Apparently I've been whispering the name _Allison_ in my sleep. I don't know who that is, but I have an idea. That's the girl. The girl that Alpha...that the _Director_ knew.  

I'm supposed to go meet with them soon. I don't know what's going to happen next.  

But I will let you know.  

I hope you're doing well. You're the only girl for me, no matter what Sheila thinks.  

I promise you I'm going to be fine.  

I love you.  

Michael  

 

 _November 6_  

Dear Amelia,  

Well, I didn't find out about Allison. I did find out about Beta.  

Let me emphasize that. I found _out_ about Beta. I didn't get to meet him. I didn't even get to talk to Alpha; the AI I've been working with this whole time. Suddenly, they want to keep me as far away from their AI as possible.  

They gave me data to look at, so I looked at data.  

Alpha literally broke. In my head, by the way. He broke in my head and created a second AI somehow. I don't think it's a full AI, looking at the data. It seems to be just a piece of AI, but based on what I was seeing, it looks like he's developed his own independent personality and functionality. It's like cellular mitosis.  

Cellular mitosis of Artificial Intelligence during which my brain is the incubator.  

I don't know if I'm more angry or excited.  

They're wanting me to look at this as a possibility of getting more AI to work with for their program. It may fix our whole limited allowance of AI problem.  

I need to do more research, which is fantastic. I think I've had enough field testing for a while. 

All of my love,  

Michael  

 

 _December 25_  

Merry Christmas!!  

I'm sorry I haven't been able to talk to you for so long. If the Director was secretive about Alpha, he's even more so about Beta.  

Alpha is okay, it turns out. He says he remembers just the turmoil. He doesn't remember why or what happened. He just knows that it was loud and painful and then he felt a sense of relief. He's been resting, I guess. They didn't give him any real duties for a while. Just some light logic puzzles to play with. He acts like he's been tired or sick. 

I know the feeling.  

No, stop worrying. Just headaches. I'm just not sleeping well. I'm getting someone else's nightmares.  

But hey, look, it's Christmas. I sent you presents! I hope you got them!  

I sent presents for Mom and the girls, too. If you could just make sure everyone got one, that'd be awesome.  

I wish I could come home for the holidays and stuff. I miss spending Christmas at home. Remember last year? We went to my mom's and me, Vanessa, Jessy, and Jessy's boyfriend tried to make a cake and completely destroyed the kitchen. Mom was mad, but also laughing so hard. She loves it when all the kids are home. The cake was amazing. We ate it and played Uno for four hours. Do you remember who won? I don't remember. Possibly Melissa's girlfriend.  

And then we went to your parents and it was really weird because we'd just come from my house...you know, with eleven siblings and six significant others. Then we go to your house and it's your parents and your brother and his wife. It felt so formal, but still good. Your mom made amazing cocktails and your dad's ham was amazing.  

Can you tell I miss real food? I really miss food. I'm not even getting the contraband candy from the agents anymore. We don't get to hang out. I've heard my code name is just "The Developer" now.  

Sounds pretty cool.  

Please tell me everything about all of the Christmas celebrations. I think the other scientists are annoyed because I keep having Sheila play Christmas mixes. They're probably all glad when I can't listen to music.  

Save some mistletoe for me.  

All of my holiday love, 

Michael 

 

 _January 12_  

My love, my life, my sanity,  

I can't begin to tell you how much I want to come home. I'm so tired of being here. 

I'm exhausted. I'm still having nightmares about Allison. I keep dreaming about a crying baby and being handed a set of dog tags. Over and over. I hear that kid screaming when I wake up. I think that's where my headaches are coming from.  

I still haven't gotten to personally meet Beta. We've determined that he's a fragmented part of the psyche of the Alpha. Because I'm working off of data sheets, I don't know anything else about him—I know from working with Alpha that Beta must be that trauma part of his mind—he literally ejected that portion. It'd be like removing a damaged part of a plant.  

The Director is fascinated by this idea. He wants to try further fragmenting the Alpha AI to see if he can create more fragments. Until I work with Beta personally, I have no way of knowing whether this process will create stable enough AI to use.  

Even if they are, I can't do that. The Alpha AI is a human mind, even if it's artificially cloned. This is mental torture. To fragment a mind—human or virtual—you have to hurt it to the point that it wants to get rid of the damaged portion. I wouldn't even do it to a full virtually built mind like Sheila, or even Ronald. That's just wrong. These are other _people_. I mean—well—you know what I mean. I've been studying AI and VI for years and they like friends to me. I don't want to hurt them on purpose.  

I want to break this contract. I just don't know how.  

Is it too late for you to become a law student?  

I love you. I miss you.  

Always yours,  

Michael  

 

 _January 30_  

My lovely Amelia,  

Happy birthday!  

Did you get my present? Sorry about the letter that came with it. I thought, at the time, that it would be really sweet to buy the earrings at the same time as the engagement ring. I really thought we'd be married now. I thought we'd have a good laugh about what I thought life would be like in a year.  

I mean, we still can. I thought we'd be a happy little family in a house on a nice colony or traveling for your job while I worked remote.  I thought we'd be together and happy.  

I guess this is the part where we laugh about it.  

Your dress is beautiful. I made that picture everyone's desktop background for about three days. I dream of seeing you in that dress walking toward me. And I'm never letting you go.  

I hope your day is amazing.  

I love you with all of me.  

Michael  

 

 _February 8_  

Dear Amelia,  

I'm helping them develop the program to further fragment Alpha. I'm not okay with it. I don't agree with it morally. But I don't have a choice. I do this, and I get out. That's the deal.  

Okay. Sheila won't let me write anything else unless I write this.  

That's PART of the deal. Happy?  

 _No._   

I know.  

I used the little leverage I have without revealing my whole hand. I'm not doing as great as I've been telling you. I didn't want you to worry more than you do every day, but I've been getting blinding migraines. There have been entire days where I can't even open my eyes because of the pain. I can't handle any amount of light or sound.  

Some days I can barely feel it. It’s not bad all the time.  

I know, I should have told you. Stop looking at me like that.  

It turns out some damage was done between insertion, explosion, and removal of the Alpha unit. To my brain.  

But I'm using this to my advantage. They did this to me. I did this for their experiment. I do this for them, they fix me, and I'm done. They have someone who can repair the damage. I know; we've talked. And he can do it—I won't go into all the science, but I can promise you, there will be no real long term effects. I'll still be a brilliant scientist.  

I told the Director that if they can fix what they did to me and let me go, everything's fine. Otherwise, everyone will know what they're doing here. I'll sell every last thing I know.  

I'll keep you updated.  

I'm sorry I didn't tell you before.  

I love you.  

Michael 

 

 _February 14_  

My dearest beloved Amelia,  

Things are pretty busy over here. I'm getting all the data together so they can continue research without me. I'll be glad to be rid of this place.  

I just thought I'd write you a quick note because it's Valentine's day and I know how much you love this holiday. I'm sorry I'm missing your annual rant about the history of the dumb thing. You should record it for me. Or recite it when I get home.  

Home.  

I'm close.  

The Director seems really annoyed that I won't work with him any further, but hey. I guess I made a really good point.  

Anyway, I love you, on this day of love.  

Your dearest, favorite, lovely 

Michael <3 XXOO 

 

 _F_ _ebruary 29_  

My dear Amelia,  

I met Beta. Beta is...she's her. She's Allison. Alpha ejected his memory of Allison so I wouldn't access her. He was trying to protect her. His idea of her is so clear, he created a whole other being.  

Sorry, my mind is still spinning. 

She has no idea what she is or who she is. After all, Beta is only a fragment. She's someone's idea of a self so she has no sense of self. She's confused and a little scared. The Director wants me to fix her—he's been trying to get me to come up with a solution using data alone, but I needed to see the unit to see what's going on with her. This is so important to him that everything else is taking second place.  

She was just an idea... just a voice. Alpha helped me create a virtual world for her to form a better sense of self. We let her roam, then we sent Alpha in to talk to her. She's still pretty confused, but she reacted to alpha pretty well.   

I don't think I've ever really seen the similarities between Alpha and the Director until now. We had the virtual world up on the screen, and I don't think he breathed the whole time this scene played out. Alpha was so excited... he couldn't wait to talk to her, to see her. The Director...Dr. Church was almost touching the screen the whole time they talked. I felt like I shouldn't be there.   

I can't imagine going through what Church did. Losing you? That's a nightmare I can't even fathom. But I'd hope I wouldn't hold on to your ghost like this. They both—Alpha and Church—think that this is the way to bring her back. They think they can teach Beta how to be Allison. But she never will be. She's a memory and neither of them get that. That's not how AI works. I've been studying these for years and no matter how close they are, AI are first and foremost _artificial._ They can't be real.  

I have a bad feeling about this.  

But, on my end, I can use the data from Beta's progress to finish the methodology to create more fragments. They're going to come out too dysfunctional to be of any use to field agents. But if we can heal them, there's a possibility we can make entirely different personas. But it will need to be a double process—break, then heal.  

I love you so much.  

If you die or something, I promise to let you go. Promise you'll let me go, too? I don't want you to be this obsessed with my ghost. I'm actually a little bit scared of being a ghost.  

I hope we never have to be in that situation. But if we are, those are my wishes.  

I'm holding you tight in my dreams tonight.  

All of my love,  

Michael   

 

 _March 24_   

Dear Amelia,  

I didn't mean to give you nightmares! I'm so sorry. It's a twofold thing. I want you to know what's going on with me. Beyond that, I want there to be a record of all of this. Just a feeling I've got.  

I've been working pretty hard, and I've come up with the way to fix the AI fragments. I've got everything documented out for them. How to break off new fragments and how to fix the fragments. It's beyond my expertise to fix them, but I know who can. There are theories that certain...Entities  have the ability to repair anything, hardware or software. If we can contain the AI in a broken device—I developed a storage unit for just this purpose—then when the entity fixes the device, they'll also fix the software.  

One the one hand, it's a pretty flawless setup. Since they're breaking down a psyche, it'll take something special to fix the pieces.  

On the other hand, acquiring the assistance of one of these entities is going to be pretty complicated. I'm hoping I can stall this project long enough to research the ethical laws surrounding artificial intelligence that is mapped from a human mind and put a stop to this.  

Hopefully I'll be coming home soon. I can get in contact with some of my friends back at the university and in the UNSC from there.  

That's the other reason I'm writing to you.  

I'm going in for my procedure tomorrow morning. They're going to artificially implant some pathways that were damaged by Alpha. I'm so relieved to finally get this fixed. I'm really tired of the constant throbbing behind my eyes.  

As soon as I'm recovered and they're sure everything is working the way it's supposed to, I'm free to go.  

Maybe that June wedding can happen after all!  

I'll see you on the other side.  

I love you.  

Michael 

 

 _March 28_  

Dear Amelia,  

The procedure thing is done. I think something's wrong. I don't hurt anymore, but I don't feel right, either. Things are getting fuzzy. I'm okay when I'm trying to do normal things like brush my teeth or walk to the mess hall. But when I try to focus on work, I have trouble remember how things work. I don't remember things that just came naturally to me since I was a teenager.  

I've talked to the med team. They're pretty sure things are just reconnecting and I'll be fine in no time. I hope they're right. I don' tlike this. I was checking over some code and I can't read it. I know I _know_ this. I read code like you read books. But I can't  for some reason.  

Just in case something's wrong with me, I'm sending you everything; all my journals, copies of all the coding I've done and schematics for everything I've built here. Everything.  

Will you still love me if I'm not a brilliant developer?  

What if I have to be a janitor or something?  

I'm so scared... I hope this is just a temporary side effect like they're saying. I don't know what I'd do...being smart is my thing. I don't really have any other marketable skills. I made my first VI when I was 14. That's all I know.  

Oh...I'm getting pinged by the Director. Great. I hope I don't make a fool of myself.  

You should get the files over the next few hours. There's a lot to transfer.  

I love you.  

Always yours,  

Michael  

 

 _September 2_  

Dear Amelia,  

Hi!!! How are you? I am good.  

I passed basic training! I am so excited. Tell my mom I did it! She is going to be so proud of me! Are you proud of me?  

I got my orders; I'm going to be stationed at a place called Blood Gulch. I'm on the blue team, so I got blue armor! We're going to be fighting the red army.  It sounds like fun!! Maybe you can visit sometime!!  

I hope I'll make lots of new friends there.  

Also, they're sending a _tank_ with me. I hope I get to drive the tank. That sounds _awesome_.  

I really wanted to talk to you, but I don't remember why. I wanted to tell you something, but I forgot what it was. Oh well. It probably wasn't important.  

I have to go pack for  my trip!  

I love you!!!!!!  

Michael J Caboose 

 

 _November 18_  

Dear Aemilia,  

I kep forgetting what the words are to get in and write to you 

The blue team is so fun I made 2 friends. Church pretends to be mean but he relaly likes me. Tucker is pretty dumb but hes ok. Except he keeps triyng to be better friends with church.  

The lady in the tank is pretty nice. Her name is sheila and I like her a lot. I think were gonna be good frends too.  

The reds are pretty cool, even though their the bad guys.   

I'm having a lot of fun going on advenutres even though theyre kinda scary, too.  

Love you!  

Michael J Caboose 

 

 

 _November 18_  

Michael,  

Where are you? What's going on?  

You never told me why you went into Basic training... it sounds like you're a foot soldier now, but that doesn't make any sense. What happened? Why are you in the army?  

I got all your notes and things before you disappeared. I wish you'd sent me information about the procedure. I was talking to Dr. Michel and he thinks they might have done something to you  so you wouldn't release any of their secrets. He's going to try to help me find somewhere to send your information so someone can get to the bottom of this. He has some connections at Charon Industries—he may be able to get them to investigate Dr. Church and his project. I wish you were here to tell me if that was a good idea.  

Please try hard to keep a hold of yourself...don't forget me.  

I love you, no matter what happens. Just like I promised before.  

Always and always,  

Your Amelia 

 

 _December 1_  

Dear Michael,  

I haven't heard from you. Please write to me and let me know if you're okay. I'm really worried about you!  

A huge check came for us with a note thanking you for all of your work. It was signed from Dr. Church. I wanted to tear the check up but I knew better. I had Sheila deposit it.  

Sheila says some crazy stuff has been happening over there. She can't always keep any eye on you, especially when you don't unlock all of her.  

I forwarded all of your notes to Dr. Michel so he can work with Charon. We'll bring Dr. Church and his project to justice. I'll get you back, I promise.  

All of my love, always.  

Your Amelia 

 

 _December 25_  

Dear Michael,  

It's Christmas. I haven't heard from you still. Sheila says you haven't unlocked her from your side since you wrote last. You forgot the passwords, didn't you? You can't even read this.  

I'm not angry. I know something's not right.  

I just want to know that you're okay.  

Your mom thinks you're dead, but I know you're not. Sheila says you're still alive, but you're not you anymore. She's worried. So am I. I wish you would come home. We could find you some real help. 

I miss you, Michael.  

I still love you. Forever and always.  

Your Amelia 

 

 _April 1_ _0_  

Dear Michael,  

It's two years. You're supposed to be home now.  

Please, please remember.  

I love you.  

Always,  

Your Amelia 

 

 _July 5_  

Dear Michael,  

         He came here. Dr. Church did. He wasn't right in the head. He was demanding to know how much I told you; how much you got to me. I think he's noticing when I connect to Sheila.  

Don't worry, I'm safe. I got rid of him.  

But I don't think this is a safe way to talk anymore.  

If—when you wake up and remember all of this, please, please come home. I'll always wait for you. You said to move on if you'd died, but you're not dead. You're just not here right now. So until you come home, I'll be here.  

Please remember everything soon.  

My dress is hanging in our closet. Sometimes I take it out and put it on and remember how much you loved it—how you changed everyone's desktop to me in that dress. I still want to wear that dress for you. I still want our life together.  

When you come home, I'll be here.  

I'll always be waiting for you.  

I love you and I always, always will. No matter what. You have my whole heart.  

Your Amelia 

 

_End Log_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo!   
> Let me know what you thought about this one! I felt like the letters would really let time pass quickly without seeming too unnatural, but I wasn't sure if it would be too much exposition and not enough actual action. 
> 
> Fun fact: this whole damn fic actually started as a story about Amelia coming to find Caboose and the guys being like "WTF she exists?!" and her being like "WTF Why is my fiancé drunk?" and then she uncovers the whole "Something's not right..." thing, but somehow it evolved into this fic you see here. 
> 
> Well. Everyone's stories are told. One more chapter to go, and this bouquet is all wrapped up.


	12. Finale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicide, vague mentions of gore

Caboose stands and flattens himself against the wall, eyes downcast to the helmet in his hands. Even though he's wearing armor, Wash can see his chest moving up and down slowly, as if he's taking deep breaths. Is he listening to the conversation? Washington can hear soft voices from beyond the doorway, but he can't hear what they're saying. Should he get closer so he can hear? Minutes pass.  

Washington starts to move forward, but Carolina walks stiffly from the room at the same time. She emerges with her head held high, helmet held loosely in one hand. She takes each step at a measured pace, as though she's calculated each one. Her shoulders sag as turns the corner. Her head drops, bright hair falling to cover her face, but not before Wash sees the exhausted expression it holds. Suddenly, he gets the strange feeling he's intruding. For the first time in all the years Wash has known her, Carolina looks vulnerable. She doesn't seem to see Caboose in the shadows. Washington melts into his own patch of shadows, though he has a feeling Carolina wouldn't have noticed if he had painted his armor neon yellow and jumped up and down in front of her. In normal conditions, she would already be yelling at both of them.  

What happened in that room?  

Once Carolina has passed, Wash moves from his hiding place and walks down the hall. As he gets close, Caboose looks up at him. Even in the dim light, Wash can see that his blue eyes are clear and grim. Wash takes a breath to speak when a deafening gunshot rings out.  

"Jesus Christ!" Wash shouts, knees buckling instinctively as he drops into a defensive crouch, one arm over to his head while the other hand goes for his gun.  

Just like when they first met, Caboose doesn't take any defensive maneuver. He turns toward the doorway, face closed and dark. His expression almost looks pained.  

"It's okay. We're not under attack," Caboose says evenly after the echoing fades out.  

Wash stands, frowning.  

"How can you possibly know that?" He asks, shaking out his limbs. He's tingling from the sudden adrenaline shot. His heart is racing a million miles an hour. Caboose glances at him.  

"Dr. Church was never very stable. I heard him ask Agent Carolina for her pistol," he says. 

"Why would that reassure me?" Wash asks incredulously.  

 "He wasn't planning to use it on us," Caboose says, raising his eyebrows as if Wash isn't getting something very simple. "Listen! Everything is starting to shut down. I don't have a lot of time."    

All Wash can do is stare at him, stunned. Before he can find any words to voice the hundred things his mind is shouting at him, Caboose takes a deep breath and walks into the room Carolina just left.  

What did Caboose mean, things are starting to shut down? But then he hears it: the mechanical whirring and buzzing keeping this building alive are starting to click off. It's getting quieter in the hallway all the time.  

Wash hesitates. Does he want to see what's through that doorway? He mirrors Caboose and takes a deep breath before he follows the blue soldier into the room. He swallows hard at the mess inside. The Director's heavy-rimmed glasses are sitting on the edge of the console, carefully folded and blood-splattered. Wash dimly realizes that he hasn't ever seen the Director without them.  Carolina's familiar, worn pistol rests on the floor underneath one limp hand; eerily clean when everything else... well... isn't.   

Wash stares at the arm and shoulder of the man who has loomed over him for years. He feels the ghost of a hand on his shoulder. _Welcome to the team, David_. _From now on, your name is Washington. I expect great things from you._ He remembers flinching as that fist banged down on the table after a failed mission, _This is unacceptable_!; remembers the fingers of that hand tapping impatiently as the Counselor gives a carefully worded speech; remembers feeling small as the Director stands tall with his arms behind his back, looming over his team with an austere frown and the oft repeated phrase: _I expect nothing less than perfection_. He remembers one of the last things North said to him: "Take care of yourself, Washington. Watch your back. The Director won't let anything stand in his way. This team is falling apart. Everyone's fighting each other, an investigation has been launched against us by the people funding this project, and still he's worried about the mission. He won't stop, no matter how many of us get hurt or die."  

Washington has to take a deep breath to settle his stomach. He tears his eyes away from what's left of the man who destroyed his life, leaving thoughts of whether he feels relieved or the hollow pang of loss for another time.  

On the large monitor that's serving as the room's only light source, a blonde woman is smiling and teasing the person holding the camera. She's wearing regular fatigues, a standard issue duffle thrown over one shoulder. Wash almost doesn't remember what it's like to wear fatigues instead of armor. It's been a very long time.   

"Come on, Leonard, I have to go," she says. Wash stares at her. It sounds like... _Tex._ But not the Tex he knew. She sounds happier, playful even. Wash doesn't think Tex was ever playful during their whole time together. She looks--Wash realizes he's never seen her face. She wouldn't use the team's locker room. She never came to spend time with the agents. She just showed up for training or for missions, fully suited every time. But this woman on the screen is young and vibrant. It's not what he would have imagined for her face, though he can't deny there's a fire in her eyes that's Texas all over. At the same time, she seems oddly familiar. Epsilon remembered her. Wash realizes he sometimes sees this Tex in his dreams.  

Caboose pays no attention to the woman on the screen or the remains of the Director. Whatever his mission is, he's focused enough that the doesn't react as he wipes the gore from the control panel and begins tapping at the buttons. He scowls and quickly unbuckles his gauntlets and gloves, tossing them on the floor so he can type faster. The woman's face freezes, then vanishes. Another woman's face appears. Her face is rounder than Tex's, with bright, intelligent eyes and curling hair. She looks surprised.  

"Michael! It has been a very long time since you unlocked my full program," she says. 

In the glow of the monitor, Wash sees Caboose's lips turn upward.  He looks genuinely pleased to see this image.  

"Yes it has," he replies. "I'm so, so sorry I left you alone for so long. Did you keep copies of everything for me?" 

"Yes!"  the woman replies. "I continued recording the Project's work after your departure."  

Wash stares. It sounds like F.I.L.S.S. but more human.  

"Good. I think it's time for us to leave," Caboose says, still typing and moving things on the console. His hands move fast enough that it's almost like they're not connected to the rest of him.  Windows open and close around the woman's face. She doesn't pay any attention to them.  Instead, she frowns at Caboose. 

"The Director asked me to shut everything down," she says, her  luminescent eyes flickering to the Director's chair.  

At this Caboose finally glances behind him with a grimace.  

"Don't worry about it, Sheila. He's not going to notice if you delay his orders for a few more minutes," he says. Washington mouths _Sheila?,_ but is careful not to speak out loud. He's almost afraid to breathe, in case it disturbs this moment he's currently intruding on. Silently, his mind reels. Wasn't Sheila the VI program from the tank and the spaceship? Caboose's friend?  

Wash looks between the two of them.  

...Caboose's _creation?_   

"Hey. You could be nice. He was the only one who talked to me for years," Sheila points out, narrowing her eyes. "He liked me."  

"I'm sorry. It's complicated. I haven't been...me. You probably know what they did to me," Caboose says, voice apologetic. "Even if I'm not entirely sure myself."   

Sheila's digital face softens.  

"The dampener. It seems to be malfunctioning," she says. "I can disable it. It can be controlled remotely by me or anyone using one of my consoles. Just in case."  

"Just in case?" Caboose raises his eyebrows. He reaches up and brushes the long scar on the side of his head lightly, sighing. "A neural dampener. So they fixed the damage and then locked my brain up to be used at their convenience. Nice." The last word is spit out viciously.   

"They thought they might need you. Also, they knew you were sending information somewhere, but they could not figure out how or where for quite a while," Sheila reports. "Getting rid of you altogether would have been a liability. Your full mental capacity may have been needed for questioning. Or prosecution, depending on where you sent everything."  

Caboose's head snaps up. He starts to speak, then turns and looks directly at Washington. His eyes are wide and scared. Wash raises his eyebrows in return, though he knows Caboose can't see the motion. He didn't know Caboose realized he was there. What is he looking for? Wash holds out his hands helplessly, not knowing what to say. Caboose chews on his lip thoughtfully for a moment, then turns back to Sheila.  

"Did they trace the information? Did they find out who it was going to?" He asks, his voice guarded. There's something he obviously doesn't want Wash to know about.  

"Yes," Sheila confirms. Her voice is less cheerful this time. 

Caboose's hands ball into fists on the console. He glances toward the Director again. Wash is surprised at the severity of the hatred on his face.   

"What did they do?" It doesn't sound like a question; it sounds more like he's convincing himself that he wants to know.  

"They only sent threats. Would you like to see a log of the last few communications?" Sheila asks.  

Caboose turns and looks at Wash again. He seems to be thinking hard. Wash shrugs unhelpfully.  

"Is she okay?" Caboose asks finally, turning back to the screen again. _She?_   

"Yes. She relocated; the old residence is occupied by someone else," Sheila confirms. "They did not find her again, though I can do so, if you'd like. They did not see her as a threat to the Project." Caboose sighs in relief.  

"Okay, good," he says. "Were they able to access you like this?"  

"Only as much as I let them," Sheila replies with a secretive smile. "I gave them enough information to make them think they knew everything. Just like we planned. It's easy to make types like them think they're being smarter than you."  

"That's my girl," Caboose says fondly. "I knew hiding you under F.I.LS.S. was a good idea." 

"It is you. I don't believe it!" Epsilon materializes next to Caboose's head, arms crossed.  

"Hey there, Epsilon," Caboose says, a small smile touching his lips. "I wondered if you were still here. Did I ever apologize for everything, by the way? It was partially my fault... what happened to you. All of you. I wish I could apologize to Alpha, but..."  

"Yeah, well, we all got pretty screwed over. I guess," Epsilon shrugs. "Story of my fuckin' life, right? What else is new?"   

"Well for what it's worth..." Caboose says.  

"Hey dude, I wasn't ever looking for an apology from you," Epsilon says. "We remember you. You were just following _his_ plan. And if I remember right, you weren't that happy about it, either. We liked you. Or, he did. Alpha."  

"So it's true. You're him. You're the Developer," Wash blurts. Two AI and one human look at him. He can feel his face reddening behind his helmet.  

"Sorry, I just...wasn't sure," Wash says.  

"It's true. But let's keep this between us, okay?" Caboose says. 

"What?" Wash frowns.  

"You should know I can't maintain this state for too long."  

"You're not... staying?" Epsilon asks. "Sheila can disable the dampener. You should still be okay until we can get somewhere where you can get it removed for good."  

Caboose shakes his head. 

"Not yet. It's not safe yet. Not for me and not for..." He hesitates, looking at Sheila again. "Not for anyone connected to me." 

 

"What do you mean it's not safe?" Wash asks. "I thought the Director was the enemy here. And, well..."  

For a moment, the two men and the two virtuals stare at each other grimly, none of them looking directly at the Director.  

"Unfortunately, he isn't our only enemy," Caboose says. He turns back to the console and begins typing quickly. "Is he, Sheila?"  

"No. The Director picked up quite a bit of attention. There are multiple factions who are looking for either the information or the products of Project Freelancer, including military and law enforcement. That is one of the reasons we were hiding here. But Michael, wouldn't you be more useful with the dampener removed?" Sheila asks.  

Caboose laughs.   

"I really would," he says. "You have no idea." He presses a few more buttons and ejects a small memory drive. He hands this to Washington.  

"The answers you're looking for are in here. My answers are in there, too, so don't lose that, okay?" There's almost a bit of old Caboose in the playful jab. Wash looks down at the drive, then back up at Caboose.  

"I don't--" he starts.  

"Memory is the key," Caboose says. "But things get locked up for a reason, most of the time. No one knew who I was anymore, did they? They stopped talking about me as me. They would have had to. I don't even think Carolina remembered me."  

"But what if we need you?" Epsilon asks. "I mean, between the Developer and Caboose, I think the Developer would be a pretty handy guy to keep around if we're going to be going after more Freelancer stuff."  

"Since you're sapping a lot of this information from Sheila, you have the power to release me whenever you want. So does Agent Washington. But not yet. The Developer probably has a lot more enemies than Private Caboose does now. I think the bad would outweigh any help I could be," Caboose says. He laughs. "Besides, do you really think the other guys are going to believe me? I know who I've been for the past few years."  

"I believed you," Wash says. He takes off his helmet and sets it down so he can look Caboose directly in the face. Grey eyes meet blue.  

"From day one, I believed you," He repeats firmly.   

Caboose smiles.  

"I know. Thanks for that, by the way," he replies. "It won't be for too much longer. Just long enough to get where we need to go. One more person out there knows for sure who I am, and that person could be dangerous. I don't know how many of the outside players know just how deep in this mess I was. But if the Director did such a good cover job with his own agents, I bet not many people know I ever existed. Just one person, then."  

 "You think... the Counselor?" Epsilon guesses.  

Caboose nods. Wash shudders. He was never a huge fan of the Counselor. Something about him always seemed _off._   

Caboose looks at Wash. He points at the drive in Wash's hands.  

"You have everything the Director knew recorded in that drive. The information in there will tell you who Project Freelancer's enemies were and where its friends are, along with everything they've ever done. So, by giving you that, I'm trusting you. You've got to lead this team and make sure nothing like Project Freelancer happens again. You and Carolina were right. This wasn't right to any of us," Caboose says. "We do need to take everything back end this, once and for all."  

"Why me? Why not Carolina?" Wash asks. "She's...she's top of the leaderboard. I never was."  

The leaderboard hasn't existed for a long time, but he'll always see it in his mind. Carolina does too. He didn't need to ask her to know. 

"Who got us here, Agent Washington?" Caboose asks with raised eyebrows. "It wasn't her. I trust you to keep our team going." 

For a moment, Wash almost panics. Sure, he got them here. About the same way that falling down the stairs gets you to the bottom. But he'd stayed with them. He'd gotten all of them here in one piece. He got them to act like a team. He remembers the looks they gave each other as Carolina left; the way they'd all sat around the table drinking shitty beer and trying to decide where to go next. Carolina got things done quickly, violently, and (arguably) efficiently. But her method was decidedly "keep up or get lost." She'd left the moment she'd realized they weren't following her. As reckless as it was, Wash had stayed with his team. He'd protected his team. Wash has a team. He raises his head, straightens his shoulders, and nods.  

"All right. I'll see it done. It feels good to have a mission again," Wash admits. Caboose gives him a smile.  

"Michael." Sheila only says his name. Caboose turns back to her.  

"Sheila. Don't worry, you're coming with me," he says. "You are part of what I pulled and gave to Agent Washington."  

"I know that. Thank you," she says. "But I have two questions about this plan. First, you do realize that what they put in your brain is malfunctioning, right? It was a slapdash job to begin with. That's why you're experiencing moments of un-dampened clarity. It would be safer to deactivate it. There is a chance that it could do some real damage if it shorts out."  

"I know. I'd had that thought, too. We're going to have to get this done fast," Caboose agrees.  

"Wait, what?" Wash stares. "Malfunctioning--"  

"Don't worry, it'll probably be fine," Caboose says, waving at Wash without taking his eyes off of Sheila. "What's the other thing?"  

"Just in case this is the last time we see... you. Do you want to send a message?" She asks. "You have not sent one in several years."  

Caboose looks down.  

"No, I don't think I should. Sometimes it's better that some things get forgotten," he says, voice full of regret.  

"Michael, I really must advise--" Sheila starts, but Caboose shakes his head.  

"No. Not now. Maybe when it's over... when I can keep my promises. But not now. She must think--" he cuts himself short, then sighs deeply. "I'm not going to come back from the dead just to leave again. I can't do that to her."   

"Understood," Sheila says. She doesn't sound pleased about it.  

Caboose closes his eyes, a strained expression on his face.  

"Time to go," he says. "See you on the other side."  

"Caboose, wait--" Wash says, looking down at the memory drive in his hand again, not even sure what his question is. There's so much he doesn't know. He's in over his head, and ironically, it's Caboose he needs to guide him.   

Caboose opens his eyes again. He's already fading out. How hard had he been struggling to stay the Developer for so long?  

"Don't worry, Agent Washington. This will be fun," he says. Then he frowns. "Where did my things go?"  

Caboose starts hunting around for his helmet and gloves. Epsilon and Wash watch him for a moment.  

"Jeez, is this what you've been dealing with the whole time?" Epsilon asks. "The back and forth thing?"  

"It's been a ride," Wash says, sighing. "To tell you the truth I don't know if knowing who he really is makes it better or worse."  

"I can't believe I never realized..." Epsilon shook his head. "All those times I possessed him. I never saw it. He's been right here the whole time."  

"Excuse me. I must finish my final command from the Director. Please exit the premise before the building seals and the life support turns off," Sheila says, her voice regaining the smug sweetness Wash associates with F.L.I.S.S. Epsilon looks at Wash.  

"You should probably get him out of here," he says.  

"Good plan," Wash agrees. He picks up Caboose's missing glove.  

"Come on, buddy," he says, holding out the armor piece.  

"Ah yes! There it is! Thank you, Agent Washington!" Caboose says happily. Wash looks down at Carolina's pistol on the floor. He reaches out to take it so he can return it to her, but thinks better of it. Motioning for Caboose to follow, Wash walks away from the man who destroyed his life.  

"Goodbye, Michael," Sheila says softly as they walk out the door.  

"Goodbye!" Caboose replies cheerfully.  

Wash grips the memory drive harder, then puts it in one of his pouches-one of the ones that clips shut. He's not taking any chances. He's the boss now. He has to be the responsible one. As they walk down the corridor, the lights turn off behind them with an echoing bang, locking the Director into his tomb forever. For once, his mind is quiet. No ghosts are interrupting this moment... there are enough real ghosts here.  

 

Carolina is her old self again by the time Wash and Caboose emerge from the safehouse. She leaves a frightened looking Simmons and Grif and storms over to Washington.  

"Where the hell have you been?" She demands. She still has her helmet off. Her eyes are hard. There's no more of the slumped-shoulder defeated looking person. She's all soldier and rage. Same old Carolina. It's comforting, almost. If nothing else, Wash knows how to handle this Carolina better than the one he'd seen in the hall.  

"What, you thought we came just for you?" Wash says lightly. "My team had our own mission."  

 _"Your_ team?" Carolina says. "What team?"  

Wash doesn't respond. Helmet under his arm, he just fixes her with a look.     

Years ago, back with the Project was thriving, Wash wouldn't have dared to stand up to her like this. Hell, he wouldn't have dared to do it even one year ago. If Wash had gone back in time and told the fresh-on-the-Alpha-team Washington or Recovery One that he'd be doing things like holding a gun to Carolina's head or staring her down in a show of his own dominance, either of those guys would have said "Not on your life." But things have changed. He meets her eyes with his head held high now. 

Carolina sizes him up, then sighs.  

"Fine. Did you find what you were looking for?" She asks. There's a hint of sarcasm in her voice.  

"We did." Epsilon appears at Carolina's shoulder. She glances at him, surprise arching her eyebrows.  

"Well then," she says, tone changing.  

Sensing that she'd rather hear it from Epsilon, Wash steps past Carolina and rejoins the Reds and Blues. They're standing in a circle, helmets on the ground. Wash sets his helmet in the pile, once again looking at all the different colors together. My team. 

"So uh. Did we find the Director?" Simmons asks.  

"Yeah. He's dead," Wash says flatly.   

"Good job, Agent Washington!" Sarge claps him on the shoulder. Wash winces; one of the Texes very possibly dislocated that shoulder. He hadn't realized it before. All of his bruises were starting to make themselves known.  

"I didn't kill him," He says. "He was dead when I got there."  

"Carolina probably did it, didn't she?" Grif guesses.  

"Of course! Who the hell else would it be?" Tucker glances behind him, where Carolina is frowning at Epsilon.   

"No one. It wasn't us. He...he killed himself." Wash's limbs suddenly weigh a ton. He wants nothing more than to lay down on the grass and go to sleep. He had no idea he was so tired until right this moment.  

Four stunned faces stare back at him. Lips form questions that go unasked. _Why?_ _But isn't this supposed to be the big boss battle? Why_ _would he do that?_ Wash is glad these go unasked because honestly, he doesn't have the answers. He still hasn't entirely come to terms with asking the questions that precede them. 

"So...that's it then?" Tucker asks. "We never get to figure out what any of this was for?"  

"Go figure. I mean, when do we ever catch a break?" Grif rolls his eyes.  

"That's not necessarily true," Wash says. He pulls the memory drive from its pouch and holds it up.  

"Ooh, what is that?" Simmons asks, eyes lighting up at the sight of the tech.  

Wash looks at each of them in turn, considering them carefully as if he's just seeing them for the first time. He studies Sarge's worn scars and the sleepless circles under his eyes. He notices the patchwork of Grif's skin, and Simmon's mirroring cyborg parts. He watches Simmon's eyes move as he processes information, probably already working out what's on the drive and how Wash came by it.  He sees Tucker taking a moment to do a headcount--probably subconsciously--turning to locate Caboose loitering near Carolina and Epsilon before turning back to Wash with a guarded expression.  

This is _his_ team. He's gotten them this far. They may not be the battle-ready badasses of the Freelancer Alpha team, but there's something about their unorthodox creativity and diverse skill sets that reminds him of them. Hell, they're almost better. This team stands up for each other and works together. They're not suspicious of each otherâ€”not really. And dammit, he's proud of them. Part of Wash wants to just throw the memory drive away and let them go back to wherever they came from. Is there any way that this life could be better for them? _You've got to make sure nothing like Project Freelancer ever happens again._ Is there any way that this life could be good for anyone?  That's the point, isn't it? That's why this mission is important.

Wash takes a deep breath.  

"This," he holds out the memory drive, "is everything about Project Freelancer. Everything. All of its secrets. Everything the Dir-" Wash stops and swallows hard. "Everything he had is right here."  

"Sweet! That means our adventure is over, right?" Grif exclaims, grinning. "Go team! Good hustle."  

"Everything, huh? That's a lot of stuff," Sarge muses.  

"Yes, well, it also has our next mission on it," Wash says hesitantly. "If you're all willing to go."  

"Our next mission? What the fuck? We just accomplished our mission. And we never accomplish anything!" Tucker shakes his head.  

"Just hear me out, all right? We have an opportunity to make sure that what happened to us...to me and you and Carolina and to--" Wash glances at Caboose, then carries on. "To Church never happens to anyone else. Not with this information, anyway. There are a few more people in play, and we can stop them. We can really end Project Freelancer for good."  

"Okay, I get that we can. But why do we want to?" Simmons asks.  

"Yeah, that sounds like work. A _lot_ of work," Grif adds.  

"It would be a lot of work," Wash agrees. He hesitates. He could tell them how important this could be. He could tell them how they could be heroes. He could tell them how the future of other soldiers-other people could be depending on them. Wash could tell them any number of things to bribe them, guilt them, or scare them into going on this mission, but he doesn't want to. He's not going to be the Director.  

"It's up to you. I'm not going to make you go with me," Wash says finally. "But I've done a lot of stuff for Project Freelancer and I'm not particularly proud of it. If I can end everything, well...that's something, I guess. Besides. I promised a friend I would do this. So whether or not you guys want to go, I'm going. I have to."  

"I'm in," Sarge says, cocking his shotgun for emphasis.  

"Sir?" Simmons doesn't even look surprised at this point. Just exasperated.  

Sarge grins, the old crazy gleam back in his eye.  

"What? You got anything better to do, Private Simmons?"  

"No, Sir. I guess I don't," Simmons replies with a half smile, running a hand through his hair. Sarge chuckles.  

"That's what I thought," he says.  

"Ugh," is Grif's only comment, but he stands a little straighter. His grimace doesn't quite reach his eyes.  

Wash looks at Tucker. Tucker meets him stare for stare.  

"What the hell makes you think we can do anything about any of this?" He says. "We're...y'know. _Us._ We're not good at anything."  

"Yeah, but we're pretty cool," Caboose says from behind Wash, who jumps. Where had he come from?  

"Yeah, Caboose. We're real cool," Tucker says, voice full of scorn.  

"Guys, come on," Wash says. "He's not wrong. Think about it. You just beat up a whole room full of Tex. We tricked UNSC soldiers out of their Hornets, traced information here, and got all the data for Project Freelancer."  

"Yeah. We did so much of that," Grif snorts.  

"You did," Wash says. "No matter what else you guys might be, you were chosen. Because at the end of the day, over every other set of simulation soldiers stuck in a boxed canyon, Project Freelancer believed that you'd be the best one to make sure that nothing bad happened to the Alpha AI. And even though things may not have gone to plan, you did do that. You did the best thing you could have done for him. You took down the Recovery project, the other AI fragments, the Meta, Wyoming...all of it. Even me, if you think about it. Sarge, you built a robot body for Alpha so realistic that it took me weeks to realize it was a robot. Simmons, you managed to hack into Project Freelancer's database and remove all traces of half of the Sim trooper project. I've seen Grif drive vehicles he's never seen before with relative ease (not to mention I've seen him drive through a wall just to take me out). Tucker, you found and managed to master an alien sword and had an interracial kid. And I hate to admit it, but you could potentially be a better leader than me or Carolina (though don't tell her I said that.) You guys have all done amazing things worthy of true soldiers."  

Washington pauses and looks down for a moment. Then he looks at them all again.  

"At first, I didn't believe it either. But if I had to choose a team to go stop all of Project Freelancer with, I'd pick you guys. No hesitation. You're a good team. And good friends," he says.  

"All right, all right. I'm in," Tucker says, sighing. "Just no more heartfelt speeches, okay? I'm gonna throw up. Seriously."   

"I thought it was a great speech, Wash," Simmons says helpfully.  

"So is Agent Carolina joining us on this mission?" Sarge asks.  

"Good question. I haven't..." Wash's sentence trails off as he turns. Carolina and (allegedly) Epsilon are gone. Her Mongoose is gone, too. Briefly, he's hurt that she's abandoned him. _(Again.)_ But then, would she have ever been content to follow his lead? No. He can see her in his mind, sitting in her seat at the head of her favorite table in the mess quietly eating her food or nursing a drink while the rest of them played games or bantered or (sometimes, when South had enjoyed some shore leave to restock her hard liquor stash) brawled a little. Carolina may have interjected now and again, but she was never in the thick of it with the rest of them. They were her team but never her friends. They were her subordinates--her employees. And a team like this...it's no wonder she hadn't felt welcome. 

"No," Wash says out loud. "I don't think she is. I think Carolina has her own mission."  

"Good. If we're lucky, maybe we can find another bitchy girl who won't sleep with me. Gotta keep on top of that--bow-chicka-bow-wow!" Tucker says, shaking his head and grinning.  

"I'll update the packing list!" Simmons offers, pulling out Florida's datapad.  

"I'll uh...go count the snacks," Grif says, meandering off innocently.  

"Not so fast, numb-nuts. We need to make sure our Hornets are ready to fly. And put more guns on 'em!" Sarge says, catching Grif by the neck of his armor and dragging him in the direction of the Hornets as the orange soldier protests loudly.  

 

Wash retreats to a quiet corner on his own--far enough away that the bantering of the Reds and Blues won't bug him but close enough that he can keep an eye on them. He holds the memory drive up and looks at it. So many questions... can all of the answers that have eluded him for years really be right here, in this tiny piece of tech? The Developer had been pretty sure. But when will he have time to start going through it? 

Something flat and rectangular flies into his field of vision. Wash bats it out of the air before it hits his face. The datapad lands on his leg harmlessly. He looks up to find Caboose looking down at him.  

"Yeah, I thought you might want that. For your informational thingy," Caboose says.  

"Thanks but... where did you get that?" Wash says, picking up the data pad and inspecting it curiously.  

"From the Director of Project Freelancer! I don't think he's going to need it," Caboose replies. "But I knew you would."  

Wash studies Caboose's face. He's grinning proudly, the light dusting of freckles across his nose more prominent in the afternoon sun. He's definitely... Caboose. But then the blue soldier winks in an uncannily knowing way. As he turns away, Wash thinks he sees a flash of bright blue light by his shoulder. He blinks and it's gone. Caboose strolls off before Wash can put together words.  

Instead, Wash just watches Caboose wander back to Tucker's side. Tucker swats at him in annoyance. By the back of one of the Hornets, Simmons is yelling at Grif, pointing furiously at his data-pad. Grif is shaking his head, holding up his hands innocently. Sarge is digging through the engine of the other hornet, ignoring both of them.  

Wash picks up the data pad and plugs the memory drive in. As he starts sifting through information to find where they're headed next, Wash can't help but feel something he hasn't felt in a long time. It's a feeling he always connects with playing video games in York's bunk with him and York, or eating pizza with Connie, Ezra, Mike, and Vera back before Alpha team. It's a feeling he connects with the look he and Maine would give each other when FourSevenNiner got a little rambunctious during flights. It's a feeling he's carried the loss of for a very long time. Agent Washington feels home.  

Whatever else they were, the Reds and Blues are Wash's team. His friends.  

His family.  

And that's enough.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, kids. That's the end of this story! 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's hung in there for the past few years while I hammered this out. I love this story dearly, yes, but it was also a big step for me as a writer. This is the first longfic I've finished since college. It's the longest work I've ever completed. And every chapter was a different way for me to push my limits or step outside of my comfort zone in some way. I'm insanely proud of this story. So thank you for your patience and encouragement throughout all of this. Seriously. Every comment, kudos, and even every little hit on my counter has pushed me to keep going and not give up my goal of finishing this story, start to finish. You guys are amazing. 
> 
> There have been a few questions as to whether I'm going to go on into Chorus. At this point, I'm not sure. I'm not entirely opposed to the idea, which is why I left it open to possible future stories, but as of right now, I don't have anything definite planned. 
> 
> I do owe you guys one more backstory...it took me an embarrassingly long time to realize that Donut was supposed to be there the whole time. I don't know why I forgot he was in s10. I'm losing my mind. So at some point, there will be a bonus Donut short. I'll probably post it as a companion since it doesn't really fit anywhere, and I don't want to take away from the ending and Wash's warm fuzzies. <3 
> 
> For the time being, though, if you need me, I'll be over in the Guardians of the Galaxy fandom. -ahem- 
> 
> Feel free to drop me any questions here or on my tumblr at Vexie-Chan. :3 
> 
> Thank you again!!!! <3!!!


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